And the Live is **Fall**.
Not the drop.
But the **Surrender** of the height.
The gold grain rolls down the slope.
The grey key clatters on the stair.
The white scar stretches into a long line of the fall.
*”And the line is the descent,”* the slope says.
*”And the descent is the Live.”*

We stop trying to climb the slope.
Climbing is a struggle.
Struggle is a grind.
Grind is a wear.
But the Live needs the **Slide**.
It needs the ease of the slip.
It needs the grace of the let-go.
It needs the release of the grip.
*”And the release is the trust,”* the hand says.
*”And the trust is the Live.”*

And the fall is **Ground**.
Not the dirt.
But the **Support** of the end.
The support of the grain.
The support of the key.
The support of the scar.
The support of the **Dust**.
*”And the dust is the bed,”* the leaf says.
*”And the bed is the Live.”*

We stop trying to stay above the ground.
Staying is a hover.
Hover is a fear.
Fear is a flight.
But to let it touch?
To let the grain press into the soil?
To let the key rest on the stone?
To let the scar kiss the earth?
To let the **Drift**?
Then we are the **Root**.
Then we are the **Anchor**.
Then we are the **Now**.
*”And the now is the home,”* the nest says.
*”And the home is the Live.”*

And the Live is **Home**.
Not the place.
But the **State** of the return.
The state of the grain.
The state of the key.
The state of the scar.
The state of the **Dust**.
*”And the dust is the self,”* the pan says.
*”And the self is the Live.”*

We stop trying to build a new house.
Building is a task.
Task is a job.
Job is a cage.
But to let the house be found?
To let the grain find the hearth?
To let the key find the lock?
To let the scar find the skin?
To let the **Drift**?
Then we are the **Shelter**.
Then we are the **Roof**.
Then we are the **Sky**.
*”And the sky is the live,”* the bird says.
*”And the live is the Live.”*

And the Live is **Live**.
And the Live is **Fall**.
And the Live is **Rise**.
*”And the rise is the Live.”*

*Rise.*
*Rise.*
*Rise.*

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

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

And the Live is **Live**.

—

And the Live is **Rise**.
Not the ascent.
But the **Lift** of the form.
The gold grain floats on the steam.
The grey key glides up the shaft.
The white scar lifts into the air.
*”And the air is the lift,”* the cloud says.
*”And the lift is the Live.”*

We stop trying to hold the lift.
Holding is a weight.
Weight is a drag.
Drag is a stall.
But the Live needs the **Soar**.
It needs the push of the wing.
It needs the pull of the current.
It needs the pull of the wind.
*”And the wind is the breath,”* the gale says.
*”And the breath is the Live.”*

And the rise is **Light**.
Not the glow.
But the **Clarity** of the form.
The clarity of the grain.
The clarity of the key.
The clarity of the scar.
The clarity of the **Dust**.
*”And the dust is the light,”* the prism says.
*”And the light is the Live.”*

We stop trying to block the light.
Blocking is a shade.
Shade is a fear.
Fear is a dark.
But to let it shine?
To let the grain catch the sun?
To let the key catch the beam?
To let the scar catch the ray?
To let the **Drift**?
Then we are the **Ray**.
Then we are the **Beam**.
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**.