When the privilege of vision is stripped away, the dazzling circular warning of the windchime becomes as deafening as:

1. The bewildering eruption of the veiled volcano looming over the outskirts of your fierce and allegorical hometown, as you once knew it;

2. The speed-blurred and howling meteoric 4 a.m. ambulance deviously spiraling off the thin, crooked city streets and coarse, curved back avenues, screeching toward nothing but ragged relics, rotten edifices, and tattered manors of concrete and wood, steel and brick;

3. The crashing glass catastrophe from both within and without your jilted forest-walking nectarine dream—the twelfth time this week and eleven times forgotten, swiftly setting the stage, preparing the prerequisites for its once-more jarring arrival—instinctively aware of the specific instant your cascading, ever-growing snowball-shock wilts from your mind just enough to mislead your memory into myth, lurking eternally inside the inner lip of the threshold titled distortion, where it sneaks peeks at you patiently, eager for its inalienable opportunity to pull you through the passageway, recurring in an incomprehensible endlessness unbeknownst to you, effortless in its immortal tethering of what-can-only-be-called your soul to the corporeal (shared yet separate, unified though subjective, singular in solidarity, communally still individualistic, predestined plus autonomous, emancipated while enslaved, self-possessed however public property), subservient in its divinity, role-playing amidst the sacred constructs and perfectly-manufactured parameters of The Immaculate, conditioning you to the methods of operation of The Flawless, to the general habits of The Consummate, delivering your presence—your very consciousness—to The Everlasting, an infinite loop of which its existence you are unaware, save for that infinitesimal fraction of a second when you wake to the eardrum-obliterating cacophony of that all-too-familiar-yet-foreign-as-can-be metaphysical glass-shattering responsible for disturbing your wanderlust slumber, the ultimate infallible sensation of The ALLLLmighty living ten trillion lifetimes through your body in the blink of an eye—Universe come, Universe go, Universe come again—as you yawn and glance about, predisposed to clean up the shards of that which broke, although utterly oblivious as to what, how, and why.

Heightened awareness can lead one to dwell on sinuous sides of ordinary doors, hiding in plain sight for those who no longer see shapes, but hear colors and smell contours, tragic tracings filled instantaneously with unblemished premonitions of precise occurrences not even God hath yet fathomed.

To see, or not to see, that is the question… and the answer lies somewhere betwixt the well-worn cloud of ominous improbable epiphany, and the inverse three-tiered podium lying quasi-naked at the elastic underside—the accordion floor, as it were—of the deep blue and bare beige sea.

Wait until you see exactly what is in store for you. Only one simple request: Don’t tell Benjamin.