It's up to us to make the grey shine. We must retune it as a simmering shimmering mirror blast from heaven, for mercilessly scorching out fear and replenishing the ecstatic lovebuzz of life. Our delicate life, almost not there any more - it can again be swamped by the eye-blinding incense smoke spell of the sky set free. The logical environs of the city can again resonate to the devastating logicless shattering of the urge for security. The fleet-foot dancing void shall again inform and outform the ringing ringed omnidirectional refraction of the light that isn't indoors, and isn't outdoors either. Hill waves are slower time cycles. The rooms are nearly empty, because it all happens in elevated sound. Everywhere is distant during birth. Everywhere is home.