Is it possible to exist in the space of a violin’s note? The quiver of sound, elongated upon the tension of strings? For if it was, I surely would – for there, in a single breath, is all the beauty of life.
Ancient sounds swirl through paper thin walls on St. Willards where hope left me a crumb and life struggles to have meaning.
A chill drizzles down my spine covered with cotton and flannel while distant drums call to my thoughts leading the lead marked pages dressed only in simple horizons.