Dag always seems like a place out of nowhere; a spot that has its own heartbeat, its own rhythm. There's a drummer over there, a guitar in the corner and a weird symphony that you can't shake loose once you hear it.  But it doesn't really exist.  Then again it does ... every time you look away there's a ghost swaying slowly ... making you move with the violin as the flute confuses you because it's not the jazz you expected at all.  It's Dag.

Or it used to be, at least.  Voices have faded in the mist of time - time that confuses past and present; time that follows us into tomorrow.  Colors swirl while raindrops fall over all the people that watch underneath.  Blink and you'll miss it, they say.  Don't let it fall, others warn.  The truth of the spirit is diluted purity, nothing more or less than the nakedness of the word.

Dag was once a child of the word; it drank from the milk of another.  It learned the necessity and the very urgency of what it meant to communicate.  Nothing less than everything, nothing more than understanding.  Every bite stung, every touch soothed.  Anger and sadness, humor hand in hand with suffering.  Longing to laugh ... needing to cry.  Always a place to lament; always a place to surrender.  But never completely.

Though sometimes together.  Always together.

Given the chance, Dag might be a reminder.  Of what's required of each of us who have held its hand.