Paperboats.

High above the ground, sitting by the glass window watching the rain splatter.. footsteps on the concrete with the voices in the street; I guess I hear every sound on the ground. Even street lights dancing in the moonlight, across the park, I know of glitter in the dark. From the window view, I can see the colors turn blue, painting pictures as fresh as the water clear. Days have passed, in the silence, the murmur, the whispering of the birds; waiting, patiently and eagerly, for the hue to break. The footsteps on the city ground now grow old and wear out, eventually, and fade away.

Ask me to define magic to you and I’ll tell you about the ferocious waves rising and elegantly receding back. Ask me about colors and I’ll walk you where the rainbow meets the pot of gold. Ask me to describe emotions and I’ll show you the storm, thundering sky and the sunlight trying to break through. Talk to me about going, we can swim to the ocean-bed where everything torn apart steps boundaries.

~'to see the world in a grain of sand,

and heaven in a wildflower,

hold infinity in the palm of your hand

and eternity in an hour.'

William Blake.

Nearby a river with a boat afloat, alone wavering in the splashes of the waves, he sees the stones on the riverbed closing in. Down as he sways, slowly disappears into the mist.