One might imagine flying on a broom, yet as much as it is
imagined this will never be a fantasy fulfilled.
All the noise bothers me. Clocks tick. Fridge compressor
runs. Air conditioner humming. Sirens. Internal combustion engines. Tire
friction. Why fill the silence? If it were utter, would I still long to hear
running water?
An end brought on by my intent. Some days I wonder about why
it might be wrong and other days I wonder why it doesn’t seem wrong enough.
How old do I have to be before my thoughts are permitted to
be my own?