Is living always by accident?
The air is changed when we
give it back, is that fair?
We crawl as though we fly- could it be such a
mystery that we imagine ourselves as winged creatures, that crawl through muck
as clouds or waves of stars? That which is unreachable draws my wonder the
most, taking my suitcase with extra pairs of Realistic inside. “But theres
nowhere to go, don’t you see?” I tell my Traveler, “Whatever the sun touches is
glue to what we are.”
Of course, there are those who have come and gone but
they never do return, maybe they could bus back to this somewhere if they
pleased, but like the new where more. The one who did come back, I am told to
give him my gratitude. In time but now not, I never shook his hand.
