You’re walking, fast, a feverish drumming of foot in front of foot, a rhythmic solo taking you around the corner. You’re on a drunken mission, a daredevil escape from and fueled by an imaginary madness. Streetlights blink in perfect synchrony; bicycle bells are xylophones, car alarms are the brass section. Your vision’s blurring — senses are dulling down to allow the haphazard orchestra of interchanging city streets its life.
Your mind — my magnet of a black hole, my broken hadron collider — is exploding and imploding at the same time. You’re thinking in snowstorms, fires, and tsunamis to the soundtrack of Bach, performed by shutting doors, flicking lighters and clinking shot glasses. You’re thinking anywhere but here, anything but this.
Cell phones join the truck horn and the sound of my stilettoes hitting the sidewalk to form a crescendo as you hop over the fence and land to a screeching silence. This is when the clocks of us I used to wind stop ticking. This is where your own 639 year old melody begins. This is where your beautiful, broken mind and the tsunamis of its fiery pathways take off on a journey to the stars, ripping the moon to shreds on their way out of orbit. This is where my song ends and this is where you and the snowstorms of your indifference and the scalding vortexes of your passion leave the world, and on it, me.