I travel more than I think, more than I know, further than I ever have. A garden table with breadcrumbs for the birds  - undercurrent wish – background noises – street fluidity – engines – fumes – afternoon liquid gold. The city turns like hands around the clock. I opened the lock, now I travel.

Inside it should be womb-like security, the lining made of the music of tears, of all the warmth that you cried. Still I spiral on, I have chosen to. Organic decisions are stronger than what you thought. Filigree essence screen – palpable air, filtered. Vibrating to the waves of life – a moment in which you dwell, a present shell in which you nestle. So I catch the thicker atmosphere around, like a salmon feeling the fresh water, absorbing it through its gills.

That is when, that is where, I travel. A flight of stairs, and up I go, never mind the holes in the threadbare oriental rugs,  the tarred lungs of curtains and walls. Up I go, to rooms of restless sleep printed in the air. When I open the creaking window, overcoming its resistance, I feel the quiet air that crowns the closed garden. An orderly renaissance. A white garden table stippled with breadcrumbs - nurturing dots - pointillism from a distance.
I know, in many ways, I travel.