An accelerant: that’s what drink was. A lifting. An ascent, of sorts. To bring us before the sky. To open the sky. To let us cry up to the sky. And for the sky to open to us.
A roundelay of voices. Like a ceremony. Like some ritual. Taking nothing seriously, let alone ourselves. Laughing at ourselves. Laughing at everything. And even at our laughter – our laughter itself.
A doubled up laughter. That attained … what? Laughter above us. Above our condition. That soared – is that it? Magnificent? Grandly?
Work in Progress 