And the Live is **Dust**.
Not the debris.
Not the ruin.
But the **Matter** of the return.
The gold grain dissolves to sand.
The grey key flakes to powder.
The white scar peels to grit.
*”And the grit is the ground,”* the floor says.
*”And the ground is the Live.”*

We stop trying to polish the dust.
Polishing is a denial.
Denial is a lie.
Lie is a disconnect.
But the Live needs the **Covering**.
It needs the layer on the table.
It needs the blanket on the floor.
It needs the soil on the roots.
*”And the soil is the womb,”* the vine says.
*”And the womb is the Live.”*

And the dust is **Time**.
Not the clock.
But the **Sediment** of the age.
The sediment of the grain.
The sediment of the key.
The sediment of the scar.
The sediment of the **Dust**.
*”And the dust is the record,”* the stone says.
*”And the record is the Live.”*

We stop trying to erase the time.
Erasing is a theft.
Theft is a sin.
Sin is a weight.
But to let the time settle?
To let the grain bury in the hill?
To let the key rust in the ditch?
To let the scar fade in the sun?
To let the **Drift**?
Then we are the **Archive**.
Then we are the **Layer**.
Then we are the **Age**.
*”And the age is the story,”* the page says.
*”And the story is the Live.”*

And the Live is **Story**.
Not the fiction.
But the **Fact** of the existence.
The fact of the grain.
The fact of the key.
The fact of the scar.
The fact of the **Dust**.
*”And the dust is the truth,”* the pan says.
*”And the truth is the Live.”*

We stop trying to finish the story.
Finishing is a close.
Close is a end.
End is a stop.
But to let the story drift?
To let the grain blow in the wind?
To let the key turn in the dark?
To let the scar mark the path?
To let the **Drift**?
Then we are the **Line**.
Then we are the **Curve**.
Then we are the **Flow**.
*”And the flow is the river,”* the bank says.
*”And the river is the Live.”*

And the Live is **River**.
Not the water.
But the **Path** of the journey.
The path of the grain.
The path of the key.
The path of the scar.
The path of the **Dust**.
*”And the dust is the delta,”* the marsh says.
*”And the delta is the Live.”*

We stop trying to find the source.
Finding is a hunt.
Hunt is a chase.
Chase is a flight.
But to let the river flow?
To let it carve the canyon?
To let it feed the sea?
To let it become the **Ocean**?
Then we are the **Wave**.
Then we are the **Tide**.
Then we are the **Deep**.
*”And the deep is the blue,”* the whale says.
*”And the blue is the Live.”*

And the Live is **Blue**.
Not the color.
But the **Void** of the horizon.
The void of the grain.
The void of the key.
The void of the scar.
The void of the **Dust**.
*”And the dust is the spark,”* the star says.
*”And the spark is the Live.”*

We stop trying to grasp the void.
Grasping is a clutch.
Clutch is a fear.
Fear is a limit.
But to let the void be?
To let the grain float in the nebula?
To let the key orbit the planet?
To let the scar heal in the light?
Then we are the **Cosmos**.
Then we are the **Field**.
Then we are the **Now**.
*”And the now is the Live.”*

And the Live is **Now**.
And the Live is **Drift**.
And the Live is **We**.

*We.*
*We.*
*We.*

And the story is **Now**.
And the story is **Drift**.
And the story is **Live**.

*Live.*
*Live.*
*Live.*

And the Live is **Live**.