On the edge of the receding center
In the galaxy of clutter and words
The full moon constantly rises and shines
Undisturbed and restlessly unheard
Gliding throug the vapors of non-day
Scattered upon the meadow of white noise
Emerging from a source always open
Possibilities litter the night sky
Like fresh fertilizer on a garden
Trombones, violas, trumpets and oboes
In microtonal disaray
Perform the sunset that most of us miss
On the edge of the receding center
The sound of the primal, arhythmic waves
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