I don't know if I can keep it.
But right now I'm suspended in happiness.
The air is thick with it.

I found that place I was just talking about.
Even my letters look less frantic.
The words still fall out.
But slower now.

The other stuff came out like *****.
I was,
(am but not now)
Sick.
A sick mind has to write like that.
Fast.
Each word running away from the last.
Like they're trying to lift off the page
before they become part of a letter
left to tell why something terrible happened.

It may be the eye of the storm.
But still.
It's so beautiful.
And still.

The wind is blowing gently against me now.
Yeah,
It's still out there.
A storm I mean.
I can almost hear the far off howls over the crickets.
But the crickets,
I like them.
The soft light in here, I like it.
Like the orange glow at dusk.
Night might fall on me soon.
But the orange light is so gentle
and the air is so cool.
It feels like only better things can come.