things_that_you_can't_change ovenbird These headphones open a door between the past and the present. They feed me music that is a mind that is an ocean I want to swim in (though I do fear drowning in water so deep). To hear this voice is to be haunted. I would give my body up to this ghost. I would give it a home. I would give it my throat to sing with. On the gravel path I’m doing normal Wednesday morning things: walking my dog, looking at the sky, counting the starlings in the grass, having my heart broken, crying. You know, the sort of things all regular people do before breakfast. I can no longer tell the difference between grief and elation. They feel the same–a swelling in the chest that might just kill me if I let it go too far. The light off the water hurts my eyes. The light off your eyes hurts my soul. The light off my soul must be the wrong wavelength for most humans to see. I’m under the canopy of a Japanese Maple. I once had a leaf like this, cast in silver, that I wore with a wine red velvet dress. I don’t know what happened to the leaf, or the dress, or the person who wore them. A stranger tips his hat to me. Do people really DO that in real life? I can’t tell what’s real. There’s a voice in my ear, and it’s so present, and so alive, but it’s not here. It’s the past singing to me. And I want to go there. I want to pick up the needle and start again. 260527 what's it to you? who go blather from