And there is nothing. Only silence. Scratching when the fingers through his hair and pull on the shoulder coming to rest. No difference between heard and felt sounds and scenes. I look around and see nothing. Blurred figures and sentences and not far away actually. Raindrops patter on windows and glass doors and leave strips, interrupted by irregularities, such as the weather is so. Rates falling from balconies out into the air. We blow words of hands in the night and the day and send them on ways and they never come to you. No tracking number for thought and No customs fees or shipping agents and any personal message in the traffic out there. Only horn and a dog that barks, and a man who shouts, and several men who want to drink and sing, and I look down and go over and watch my shoe lace, not as I put in it. We hold on to shoe laces and walking speed and table edges and leisure time. We hold ourselves to work and money and coffee and milk, and shelves of pictures and words and memories. Just not together.
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