2002-01-28-7:25 a.m.

It’s like soft jazz, un-timed, slowly pushing out notes through a smoky room. Creeping under your skin, sinking into your heart, and steel brush along snare skin wipes away the tears of time.

It’s like the off tone ringing of a spoon through a glass bowl of warm noodle soup. The scent of relaxation just out of beat.

It’s like feeling a paint soaked finger wiping over construction paper, the moment your finger dries against the fibers, dragging bold colors, begging for more.

It’s a good morning stretch, or a seventh inning stretch. One of which prepares you for the beginning, and one that settles you for the end.

It’s feeling without knowing, knowing without wanting.

It’s not love or hate, not joy or sadness, anger or happiness.

It’s not a describable emotion. It’s not a belief or knowledge.

Tell me what it is. For all these years, I’ve yet to figure it out.

d. 01102k2