There are times when the stimuli from all the points in one's life begin to converge and make a single screeching sound that doesn't come from any one place or from any of the places involved.
As the veins in my hands refill after the night's rest, that sound comes down from the sky and through the ceiling above as near as can be dreamed, filling that faint space between each new thought and reaction. I cannot recount how or where that impression began; I can only scare remaining small doses of fame-lust from the tips of every finger and whisper your name.
Each tone evolves a new regression. Though seldom guilty of gluttony, my head teeters on the edge of this; the creation of new space for clever fools and the harbingers of accidental cravings. Which will eventually first come to awakening? Only edges of the opposite horizon will tell.
As for you, my potent connection with emptiness, may your children know the love of joy.