imagine being me,
when the echoes of silence
turn into the carrier of words
falling
landing
shattering
in the form of stucco
hearing the great craziness
Beethoven heard himself,
staccatos of adjectives
describing the great escape or
the parallel tragedy within a beautiful death
and a morbidly immaculate love,
or even being immersed into a palette
of empathy,
splashes of your blues
while we grey with age,
imagine being me,
while I am managing to do that.*

-S.J