As a rule I will not obey, as a scream I will not obey, but give me the morning, or your time of day, and I shall remain.
I shall beat out the rhythm and hear me say. That in this moment here I am yours to stay.
As we pass through the hundredth German hamlet it becomes apparent. We are floating through spring. The solidity of ICE is encapsulating us, so far no need for worry. Its smooth as a clean sheet fluttering in the early morning breeze. Up on that hillside to the left. Its an unlikely combo, the green of spriggly leaves reaching out, soaking up the light. The subdued light of the tinted windows, the professional courtesy of DB, the unholy train neighbor with the pointy elbows and the sharp nose, squealing of violence. The chatty man opposite row laying it out, the sharp smell of India in those covers, already colored by water of strawberries never eaten.
The carriage full to the brim of stories passing through, we but one momentarily.
The incoherence of half sleep, struggling up to the surface in the air tempered cool surroundings. The airports closed, the ash spreading, and the music cotton of angels and other landscapes, much wilder and exciting.
Sun beating down from a relentlessly blue sky, heating us up. The mind struggling to keep it up, sharpened to provide you with the full picture. My island girl.
Someone needed to break the glass jar.
And the potion is right here. Is it for real? I can’t afford to doubt. Only in regulated doses can the fabric be unwound, and only in safe surroundings.
For the rest of the time it is better to plunge ahead. Focus on the essentials.
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