Kicking dust down a red dirt road. What have you done,. This is not the place of wide open spaces. Almost like you were compelled. Yet this shadowed place seems purposed. Breathing deep under the scattered oaks,.

Your ideas are intriguing to me and I wish to subscribe to your newsletter. I could write much about the mountains. Of snow capped peaks where roots fear to tread. And clouds leap out your lungs to float to the heavens. But my home is closer to the sea. I could write much about the sea as sailors do. Sailing across a boiling pot in wooden cups with not a drop to drink. Or of the skyscrapers of flesh below that sing their slow song.

In my travels I found no answers, only wonders. She sits alone upon the stair. Golden highlights in her hair. Wearied head against the wall. To rouse herself to climb again. Takes the mettle she fears she lacks. Yet loathe she is to descend. Thus she sits upon the stair.