"every time, my voice was absent from the choir."

the wind was serenading me tonight as i curled up in my favorite corner of my frequented coffeeshop with my headphones as a drape, a thick curtain, against anyone who may have recognized me at all.

i dove head first into my only escape right now. my eyes poured into faces and lines, and i speared the words and dialogue with such a heart. i entwined myself with every notion, every letter, and every picture put on those pages.

i tried to put the book down, two hours later, when some squawky band started to play, but i just got up and left, retreated to my porch with a six pack and my music.

four hours later, i looked up to these trees that kept swaying, gesturing with loud fingers, and i stepped out, emerged, from some other person's life and faith and broken. five hundred and fifty pages of words and drawings, it took him to tell me how it can hurt and how it can please and how doubt is good and how the word "or" is magic.

i walked lightly to the convenience store to get more beer with my headphones on and one shoe untied, and i sang loudly to songs that made me feel like i should.

everyone should feel as though they've just climbed out of another's head, or escaped into another's stories, or asked the same questions as someone else's voice ... once in a while.

(go here and find out about doot doot and why there is no goodbye and how to find your muse and why heaven isn't fair)