Don't they tend to trap themselves ? Imagine their boundless freedom ! Yet they are confined. Stationary. Unmoving. There is no impediment, yet they search for a way to overcome it. Maybe it's white, maybe it's black. Maybe it's grey. I think it's wonderful.

Wake, us sleepers. Tend the garden, fold the doubt. Why water a river ? The dawn comes, but then again, the sun never set. Everything, technically, is nothing. But everything could even be one thing.

We drink the water, yet say it is not fit for drinking ? I doubt logic consolidates that. Then what if imperfection really is beautiful ? Isn't that what they say ? Tend the garden with your hands, your bare hands, and only then will you feel the petal.

It's there isn't it ?

Junctions, junctions. And glass. If this was a movie, the steel would be a blur. On the curb is a blemished, scarred, piece to a puzzle. A puzzled piece. He watches the dance of the raindrops upon the steel and the glass, but doesn't quite hear the music. Well, he hears the other music. It's never quite enough, the melody swimming in his head. He needs to be in the sea, with it. Yet he only sees steel and glass, blurred lines.

He walks onto the road, and then he realises he is singing. And he has always been, since the beginning, since before the beginning.

Always.