Right here, when sounds echo in my ears and pluck strings of longing. Where themes shift with the air moving around me, and words fail to give shape to the unsaid and the unsaid feels like an empty river. Filling my my stomach with smoke that drifts in wanton trails.
Right here, where people look like invisible bubbles made of nothing at all because they come from nothing. Hoping to pluck meaning out of chaos and to sustain the pace of my heartbeat in a dream that escapes the grip of my fingers. Cold granite rubs against you asking you to stay.
Right here, where a broken image is the beauty of perfection, like memories falling in line and falling out of line in an attempt to weave a mosaic of spontaneity. A glass bottle filled with a hundred shards of glass that reflects the picture of yourself back into the end of what you see.