reality afterwards.

you, you're real -- ?

and I lived on a mountain.
with an opera singer who made a flaming volcano cake.
a diamond way buddhist. a slovenian architect.
a giver of dating advice, a gardener, and a MIT graduate.
and mice. yes, the mice.

we celebrated our farewells with feathers and face paint.
danced and paraded on the trampoline.
and the night rang with laughter.

- - - -

now I'm back where I started a year ago.
I tell the stories of we, us, and me.
stories of Peter Pan come true.
travels to foreign lands.
and a simplicity unknown here.

and some people ask, was this true?
is it possible you knew a wise man, a rock star,
an opera singer and a neuroscientist?

I start to wonder if maybe it wasn't.
true.
maybe it couldn't be.

but I remember.
it was.
true.
(it is.)

it can be.
true.

and perhaps will be so again.

tongues

there is a language written in each of our souls.
we try conversing in it.
with no luck. most are not fluent in the same tongue.

and so, we put our language aside; letting it gather dust.
instead, we find a common tongue --
less perfect in pitch but efficient in means.

and someday, we find someone who can speak the language of our soul with a fluency unmatched by any other.

skipping and singing.

"I'm glad we let you go free," says he.

no matter what.

+ > -

michael and joe.

In a Barnes & Noble bathroom in NYC, a mom waited outside the stalls with a stroller in tow. A voice of a six-year-old girl sounds from inside the stall:

"Michael, are you ready? Michael, come on!"

"Joe, Michael messed up. Help him fix it."

"Mommmm. Michael is busy."

The mom explains, she has named her hands Michael and Joe.