“It is not I who create myself, rather I happen to myself.”
–Carl Jung
You find that you’re singing. It’s a folk tune from Naples.
The little song heaves and winds like the gramophone or the human heart itself.
All songs are little streets in the mind. Look! Your heart is at the end of the road.
So you sing and the insolent day disappears.
The canvas and linen, the warped window, they recede like shorelines.
It’s a folk tune. A muted grin…
It’s just the middle of the day and you’re singing.
Piano laughter in your fingers.
You can feel a good song opening the doors of night…
S.K.
Planet of the Blind 
wow. just wow.
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