When we hold hands a universe is born between our palms. I can feel it all: galaxies swirling, their confounded nebulae erupting in iridescent clouds of refracted light: cascading stars: planets colonized with strange and wonderful life. I feel entire civilizations rise up from swamps. Teeming cultures. Cities are built and destroyed. Built again. Histories are written and forgotten between our hands.
The web of our entwined fingers is the cradle of existence. My outward experience is now focused inward as I watch with my mind how life begins each time you take my hand.
On the train from Hamburg the croissants are shaped liked turtles, little flaky turtles in a wicker basket. I doubt anyone else sees it this way. The man next to me fidgets and sighs, watches me out of the corner of his eye, eats fist fulls of Tic-Tacs(tm) as though he were starving and this his first sustenance in weeks.
I dream of death every night. I write in golden chalk. I try to save lives, sometimes I succeed.
There is a man standing on the corner with a piece of an Oboe.
The left handed boy on the tram is very cute. He watched me with my friends, being silly, probably thought we were drunk. Me in my red cape. His face is so well formed. He is highlighting something that looks like a script, maybe an actor, a student.
I miss someone very much.
When I look back the left handed boy is gone.
Morning coffee. Mac the knife. A wasp hovers. I must be sweet.