I'm aware of how much time I'm not here.  I think a lot of us just drop our shit off, roll to the table,

then the tube, and then the rack.  Stagger back when the rooster crows and close the door to it. 

Back later to assume the cycle of it.  It matters not I sit in it now all bundled.  It is cold here.  And it

is expensive to heat.  It matters not that the children have a place here.  And their place collects bags

and books and mementos.  They really live in this dream I have.  This dream rests on a shelf in my

heart.  There I collect and nourish them.  It matters not that I want this to have resonance and sound.

I fill the rooms with song - my voice rambles through it sometimes.  I may even stop and stare at a

thing.  It might be my likeness now or from long ago somewhere else, another's life entirely. But

when I exit it. When the door closes so heavy behind me, the weight and measure of this cube

creates this undertow. It shifts me out to insecurity, to what I cannot really know.  And I can look

back and beg for an assurance.  Plead I will for this to make sense.  Badger it all for meaning.  Ask at

least if I'm going to all right. And the cube will not say.  It will not even hint.  It will stand in its

usual manner and tell me it will be here when I get back.  And if that is all I get - what we all can at

least expect - it should be enough.  For the connection, the joy, the joining....all that is what the love

in you allows.  And you may choose one day to walk back in and inject that sweet light into all its

 corners.  And maybe then, maybe, you can say you are home.