Thinking, tonight, on a walk under some makeshift constellations:
Singing soft, rainstorm melodies makes me feel unspeakably alive.
At its completion, my story will have enveloped me like B minor at the predawn of a snow-covered day.
There is nothing more painfully right than the overlap of lines on my palms.
Symphonies are written,
Coming and going.
Maybe I’ve created her, too,
as plows leave drifts.