Here
The day breaks out into a scourge of sorrowful songs; amber splints of sun splice their way through apartment blinds, walkers eyes, and across the pale freckled flesh of lovers in their most radiant of blooms. Somehow things seem complex and assured. Here there are no unknowns, only truths radiating off the bricks and blades of grass. Here there are only kept promises, hill-top voyages, and dream-come-trues, mingling under the backdrop of the spring sky. Here the songs originate from the day and make their way into the souls of the already smiling. They sit there and fester; they penetrate the bright amber light of their hearts and parasitically attempt to devour the happiness contained within.
Here there are no such things as failure, as misery, as loneliness. Here there is no you sitting worried and troubled. Here things make perfect absolute sense; they are clear and no-longer covered in the eternal haze of the day-to-day. Here you have arrived—are arrived and welcomed. Here all things refuse to be ignored, silenced, and taken down. Here is the spring of euphoria—happiness—that pours out of the ceramic fountains and makes splashing sounds on the water below. Here you are howling at the moon, holding hands with the person of your imagination. Here novels are completed and transcribed without the haze. Here sorrow is but a song which lingers for a while and disappears. Here ,you are.
