three twenty a.m., or misty dawn for you I am miles away from you, and I can’t sleep. I can’t think straight, either. I have been sick today and everything seems sad and strange and blown out of proportion. I know that I should be trying to rest, but instead I sit in the darkness of my room and listen to the night sounds. Cars pass by outside and cut through wind; their headlights travel across my ceiling, leaving shadows as the sound of their motors lingers in the dim lit air. I breathe and try to remember what night sounds like from your bedroom window. Ah, it comes back to me. The sound of stillness, of moonlight and the Milky Way coursing through the arteries
we have stars, you and I I have stars on my shirt. You have stars on your car seat covers, and in your night sky, And I have city lights and aeroplanes that fly low over my apartment buildings. At least it looks very low from my windowsill. I wave and wonder if, from up there, they can see the plaid pants I’m wearing just like I saw and felt everything when I lifted off from your country. Life is a funny thing. So is love. So are people. I think we have a hard time reconciling the good with the evil; the happy with the sad; the joy with the hurt; the you with the me. We lean too far towards one side, and we dream too much about it all. We try to cut
Home is More than a Nounhome is our soulsand what we do with them.not the decadent tramp of well-worn boots on familiar sidewalks,not the shadowed breath of cool pine in the summer afternoons,not the heart-dreams of sleep, not the safety of curtains nor the wildness of your lovesick thoughts like the largest thesaurus.our lives are what our souls say to each other,their cores being the the earthof our purpose, and the rootsof our reason.so you see,our home is our soulsand what we do with them.
his name is calmi still have our secret codesfrom many, many years agothe legend written on notebook paper in hisscratchy twelve-year-old handwriting.but as it were, we had no needfor scribbled languages of our ownwhen we felt it in the air, and in the electricityof when he looked at meand the lyrics of all-too-perfect songsthat i wished i could sing someday.then like that splintering momentwhen you realise that you have dreamt this dream before...we were sparks in the silver winter, and something of a shooting star;miles above the earthand he was the only thing that kept my fires burning.because he was my safety, my belonging,familiarity and mysteryall in one.he was growing up, andhe was the lyrics that i will scatter like sugar crystalsthroughout my life.and i could have spent every hour of my waking day with him,every hour of sleep-filled night andstill lie gazing at his turned faceas if it were the face of everything.i could have wastedtime with himbut instead i, in my g