December 17, 2011
The space I have between the window and seat next to me is very limited.
The tress in the far distance are waving.
The hills I see are telling a story that has yet to be reveled.
Small holes are beating from the rhythm of the music.
On this trip,
I glide past the stationary scene,
It will not be remembered,
For it was only there a few moments.

The rhythm changes now to a soothing melody.
Life is changing this very moment.
The bright rays are now crawling behind hills,
Scared of the blanket coming forth.
Still sliding by glimpse scenes,
I observe the life around me.

It is even more still than it was before,
But has a feeling of not warmth but sneakiness.
The trees in the distance are no longer waving
The hills are no longer a storybook.

The melody is now begging me to follow it.
The sound and voices are leading me,
Into the world of curiosity,
I fold my shades to darkness,
I slowly fall into the depths of the washable coma.
The florescent colors will overwhelm me for a moment or two.

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