What The Books Tell Me

The profound feeling- giddy with the triumph of its reach, that everything and nothing is wrong. I dream I'm waking in my American bed from another time. But the times keep interlacing like lovers' restless fingers. Like intercrossing networks on a computer screen. And she's always there. And he's always there. And waking reality has no backdrop for this storyline. But sometimes in the mornings' thoughtless peace, I flip through pages of a book until my fingers trace the vibrations of myself. Rarely does it take very long. There's a man who found solace in a glee that had no place. And a woman who expected only rubbish so she kept getting more of something slightly better. And another man told another woman he ached for her, so she followed home. And one more who in thoughtful respect, laughed in the face of death just so she could see what it was like. Why not? She said to anyone who'd listen. This all comes wrapped in various forms of shadow interlaced by light. That's what the books tell me.