Book

I came from the bookstore and then the library smelling of stale thoughts and antique ink. Books are sense-bending beauties with spines that crack and pages that thin and yellow. Flip pages flip flip.

And I bought a book that I have read so much, but never enough to catch everything. That is the beauty of the book. I write this in a room of books & pages and stories. There is so much I have to know. Only now am I finding the confidence to read it all.

When I read, I can feel the whole of my brain become full again, lit up and ready. My body tingles and I am ready for anything. Is there anything both so solitary and social than reading? I have said hello to the dead and lived with them for a moment.

Time has become nothing. Sometimes I can make it swing forward or stop dead. It is nothing. So much that is supposed to be important to me has become fiction. Time is not real. Money is not real. And I am barely here.

Who am I to write this? To write any of this? Not one moment is mine. You don't notice wind until it picks up a leaf.

So, leaves, LIFT! Let yourself fall up into the currents of air that have never left you.

I now return to hold the soul of a man who I will never know. Flip pages flip flip.