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.*