My neighbors are the gray, wint'ring trees.

Smooth, wild-boundaried lake, fanned and dazzled by the air.

When there is less money, I put less in my stomach,

And thrive.

Nature puts her arms around me.

And I think of the prayers I'll say

In my last moments.

'Thank you, I am ready to go.'

(And fall, into your Depths. . .) 

The name never took. My name is Erik Jonsn. Sounds the same. Fewer letters. Saves ink.

Call your congressman. Get them out. Out of Iraq and Afghanistan. The oil barons' idea to run a secure pipeline from Indian Ocean to Persian Gulf isn't going to manifest. Even the hardest troopers are Burned Out. Get them out. Get them home. Now.

Why are conscious people so afraid of draft-dodging hawks such as Richard Cheney? What are our leaders so afraid of?

I went over. It was a good experience. I got blasted. I'm coming back.

The War is Over. The refugee crisis is the next focus. I am only following the lead of my future, wiser, better Self. A man I hope to soon meet.

My name means 'Without.' Whoever I was in the past, lives in the past. Forward, I have nothing from which I wouldn't part. Except my life. I learned that when it was briefly lost. So. To Live.

~Erik Sans, Comandante, The Seeded Planet