In the bustle, the drifting sound of conversation augmenting with air hangs meters from the ground. I pass through speech, over language and under meaning, words fall into the abstract phonetic strings they sleep upon. Moving between the intonation, negotiating melody, I'm afloat. Neither here nor there, the bodily boundaries fall around me, sublimating as glacier ice under bright summer sun, I rise up gradually. Dense weight on clouds, heaviness suspends backwards, the sea and sky upside down. Over and over, under and through, as thread harnessed in needles eye, wheels turn at hammer's strike, pulled into stitch. A drifting consciousness, stone-like in texture, but with lightness of spiders spin.
Awkwardness rises inside, all words meaning resting on the nothingness within.
Bring substance to void, matter to weight, self and boundaries, divisions, war, love and hate. Fill up words as more than glasses twice full, believe in more meaning, forget the everything true.
