You are a coward, is what they say. You are dumb, you are boring, and you are nothing to me.

How can a coward face the bruises of everyday life and still breathe? You are breathing. You are here. You are not nothing.

How can a dumb person exist in this private monologue? You are here. You are not nothing.

How can a boring person know that through all this pain, you can still see the sparks of light catch on the bus windows, the burgundy tulip amongst the yellow, the punch of a drum and the tweak of a nerve caught on the train passing through the tunnel, the laughter of someone else's joke that you will never know, the seagull's clipped wing - the scar left escaping a shark - now gliding through a town square, the rush of wind in hair (I love you), the petrol dancing in puddles - tiny galaxies where there might be another you standing face down into your coat, your hands in your pockets, not letting yourself remember something...what was it...that warmth...there was once something there...the paintings in the pavements, millions of granite faces forging a union against the heavy feet above (their job is harder but not so), the sea! The sea! The Sea! That great constellation for every traveller, rough as a kiss long since parted but as soft as the arm that curls around you when you need to feel fatigued, when you remember, when you stop playing (I hope you are still playing), and knowing the cause for the blue iris gaping black is opening up to let you in ( I kept you private but I keep myself this way even more), the stretch of a violin trying to swim through your veins and anchor, music is like breathing, you are here, mind is like a moor and wild, searching for that home shared, that sleep, that breath - is this not beauty? Is this not real? Flower's funerals dancing on cheeks, thunder caught up in throats to toast a shower, just a shower, there is nothing like running in rain, didn't have to be that way - 10 yards ahead but thousand yard stare, could it be confusion, could it be hands yearning and reaching for what is not there? See it others so are you shy? (Am I?)

WHY DOES MY HEART RAPEMY MIND THIS WAY?

Forced beauty in my face - drinking down statues as if that could warm.

What is the most precious thing in the world?

Its fun to draw the ludricous, I love that world. There I walk bees on leads. You are there but didn't come with me.

If I had that, I wouldn't let it go.

"Perhaps it's good for one to suffer. Can an artist do anything if he is happy? Would he ever want to do anything? What is art, after all, but a protest against the horrible inclemency of life?"

You are here. You are not nothing.

I wouldn't have let you go.

That is real. The other is nothing.