this, here. as i am sitting here. here; now. yes, now.
silly sunglasses on my head. bubble blower next to me. clouds embracing with tiny-tall hands the so light sky. distant music; and i am here.
remembrances of Catcher in the Rye; reading it, warm April summertime.
yes it was.
parks in my head. some water. a stream.
Pink Floyd's Cluster One.
oh, my head loves to turn and spin. 'nomad soul' sounds so heavy. let's just call it a seabound soul then. but with body as shore, i love to embark, and return. fingers on skin; clouds on veiled cirrus blue.
long, slow notes. a small smile unexpected. a day on which to land, and fall like deeply red leaves. songs such as no radio plays.
sure, none of this might make sense. all these things are just me, and perhaps even hermetic (i suddenly see the word 'hermit' in the word 'hermetic', for no apparent reason). but there is one single, universal principle that could account for any of you as well. this, here. here; now. yes, now.