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d e s t i n y   p l a y i n g


 'A story of shifting stories/ Perhaps only the middles of stories never seeking an end.' Written during a journey through India with black and white photos from 2009.


All things have happened here 


He could tell by the stones in the ceiling

And the spaces


A room so old everyone’s soul had been here nursed by a goddess

In this house this castle crumbling into the sand of gold

He’d come to the hole in the crossroad

The pit of three rivers

Where no man could carry anything

And her bed was dry


The ancient footprints

Were stripped by desert sun

And cooked by monsoon lightning 

With echoes of God’s first breath

Rolling at midnight


Her bed empty and sandstone throat broken through

He leaned out and the wind blew

‘Come’ she said


He walked back through the door


There is a road

I must’ve missed-

He reckoned

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