Maybe it started in the cards, warming up to read into the hopes and dreams of other people, which, though mentally and spiritually exhausting, does bring with it a particular glow. Maybe not.
Nevertheless, I guess there is a place for humanity here tonight, that which I feel I’ve left to evenings half-remembered, alongside names, faces, places which have changed past recognition, igniting old awkwardness, churning the thought that you are but a cog in this enormous machine, and that a cog you must be, lest things all fall apart around you, end you as well.
It’s an old electricity that you miss; in half a minute, half a decade’s worth: words written, feelings said, life lived; familiar faces light up under new light, familiar souls dance to new song; the universe conspires to tell you that there is still time to dig your toes into the sand.
Left Hand, Write Hand 