Seldom are the soft given a seance. There are

several kinds of soft- the soft of light cupped like a

secret etween one's palms;the hay edges of a fire's

silhouette dancing, scarcely defining the

space between absolute hunger and

satiation the bleeding of the night into the horizon,

seeping a Jackson Pollock of sun streaks and

stars; the feeling of a levity reobtained, hovering above the

skin at the hollow of our throats, creeping almost tangibly to the

spine, sending shivers like Morse code as a reminder of the

security one wraps around themselves at birth. We

sing aubades to the dawn, feed the fires with our love letters, but to the

soft, the truly soft? Man cherishes the beauty in the world as

strength, sings sonnets to its struggle and triumph, but it is

solely the strength that perseveres in history.

Soft should not lie in the wake of actions; it should be

simultaneous to them - and for the lack of this, we

strike matches, light the candles, dust off the books, and allow the

seance to begin, for the most awesome thing is to

stay soft in this

steeled world.