fyn gula and then in the silence of dissolution, that crumbling process when we admit to ourselves in a series of painful realizations that we have exhausted our resource, there is a tap on thw window above the bed.

if it was a bird, then merely a wing had scraped the glass. then again, tap, and we struggle to prop ourselves up and strain to look through the sunlight.

this is not a bird, or a leaf, or a stone. they are little bits of paper, scraps blowing about on a foreign wind from somewhere, from someone with a name.

and in an auspicious turn, the window is open enough that some of them make it inside where they flutter like butterflies and land on our laps.

we look down at them and find each on is a word and where they fall, a message has formed and because we have learned to read, we jump from the bed and race to the window to see if we can find out where they came from.
what's it to you?
who go