A habitual day..perhaps!

Often when the melancholy door opens and stays ajar creaking in the chaos of the wind like the cries of the cat I sit their somewhere like an unclaimed piece of morning..i hear the theft alarms that sound late into the night as someone puts a hand accidentally or perhaps when a thief silently checks their own edges of knowing in the art of breaking in..the piece of morning, stale arranges itself around pieces of paper strewn around and a palimpsest made of speakers, cups of tea, some smelly tobacco and house as wounded as the heart of a child refused ..you trace a word on the open pages of the book, stay by it for minutes, keep staring so that it takes away the pain of looking, it takes away the pain of being for the moment, perhaps you wish to dissolve and know that it is not only you but someone from some other time, some other space echoes along, they are bouncing off their sounds waves, sending it out in unknown territory, to the vast emptiness that the mountains create..it keeps moving along for years, enters into many cracks, floats on the rivers, slips over the moss, drips down a broken hut, gleams for a moment on the morning dew, rustle with the wind on the wearied leaves, and comes home someday in another space when you extend the hand to touch it...the voices arising from the street seem familiar, not like the voices that criscrossed across the unfamiliar on shutter laden roads, but both are the same when you enter the dog days...