There is a time at night when the stars start talking, and if you’re awake enough to see them they will tell you a story. The fifth dimension is very visual. There is no word but the whirr of angelic harmonics. Everything is a sea of boiling color energy light. There is no talking. But to me, the only thing I can think of to say is that they are talking. Bolts of light. I see sparks of light shooting from one star to the next. Like a dendrite. Like where the synapses lie near each other pulsing wisdom into the divide. And the chemicals take it from there. There is one star, he talks to me, and I am afraid my attraction to him will cause the whole universe to crash in on me. Like when I look at him we move toward each other and if I look long enough he will break into the earth’s atmosphere and make a blue white fireball across the sky so big that the ocean will rise when he dives in. And being on the edge of the ocean, I would drown. I sometimes look for landmarks on the mountain, imagining the height of the tsunami wave and wondering if I could survive by being willing to surrender to the rise of the tide. There are envelopes of money. People pay to be here. But this place is a grinding plate and if you think that you aren’t one second away from being swallowed alive you are just fooling yourself. That mountain will come down. Piece by piece. Fits and starts until it surrenders itself to the sea. And you and I are only clinging to the edge like ants crawling up the kitchen wall. There are cycles that end here. The sun sinks into the sea every night. Gold foil splattered on pink purple clouds. If you watch closely enough you can see the waves of the atmosphere warping the light of the sun. Just at the edge. The ripples make shapes like cups and plates. And one shape looks like a temple. I was taught that wisdom by an ancestor of this land. A man who fell into the sea. The sun sets on us all. And that is the wisdom of the western window. The end of cycles. Rebirth, renewal.