There is nothing, there is no perfect. There is no perfect word or image, no perfect feeling or sound. There is only you, here, pulling in a breath. There is the space between notes, where anticipation lives. There is looking into eyes you know as well as you know yourself, the way their eyes shift and look and search for you. There is the steady weight of what makes a life a life, and the weightlessness of it, too, the way you find yourself in their searching gazes, the way the gaping space between seconds comes together and forms eternity. Hello, beautiful, you say to their sweet faces, and you may as well say it to the sky for all it gives you.
"History Book" -- Dry the River