Here music echoes louder, there is more space for it to shout, scream and when it gets a break, to sing. Here the sky sports clouds which are not puffy but linear; and the silver linings do not come on the outside but the inside. The clouds are stuffed with silver, silver stuffed bubbles just hanging to dissolve into blue.
Here windows bring evenings, caressing mildly; here no ones turns the light on, not until you are ready. The darkness steps in light-footed, marking no territory, it comes and sits next to you like an old friend, visiting everyday, yawning and stretching, inspiring new insights, swallowing old ones.
Here the bottom of your feet carries dusk, it carries old broken glasses, it carries hard skin that does not go away even after softening it with water, oil and a bit of excess unused emotions sucked out of your heart. Here fingers do not point at anyone or anything but touch each other to feel the life that remains throbbing, vibrating; still so much alive.
Here night arrives unannounced and doesn't disappear until you have slept enough. Night doesn't tell stories but lets you write your own, it doesn't encourage ghosts or goosebumps, no corners are left unknown with its heavy melting mystery. Here all remains open and available to be yours -- mismatched socks, washed laundry, spare change, frozen water yet to become ice.
Here when morning comes, and sunlight touches your feet you instantly feel it. You wake up with memories that you had forgotten, of other mornings when you ignored the sunlight, when your eyebrows touched each other without telling you, when your eyes wanted to see further, into mountains and myths, but all you saw was the overflowing garbage on the streets and the depressed crows chewing on stuff that only crows can chew on.
Here when morning leaves and afternoon comes it feeds you for the day. It wipes your mouth, washes your face, it combs your hair, dresses you in colours that you never tried before. It gives you direction, it cleans out your closet and tells you to take a nap while it strokes your heart, it adds a bit of itself to your blood, and while you sleep afternoon flows through veins.
Here no one comes, no one goes, no one ends or starts. Here is not a place for dreams but all things you dreamt of. Here nothing touches you unless you want it to touch you; here even tears are welcome when needed. “When did you learn to laugh and cry like this?” you ask yourself... and you answer... “when here became here and all things there became mine.