I don't know about portraits of the soul, but in days of sunshine, sometimes I go away for a little bit, to have time by myself.

And sometimes I am writing, typing on my bed, by the window.
Or sometimes, I'm sitting against the wall, making songs on silver strings, with pencil & strums.

And sometimes, I go naked, and turn on the shower. I put the music, loud in the basin, leave the vent & the lights off, and shut the door. And the water is a little too hot. And my knees and the little balls and palms of my hands find the smooth face of the bathtub. And there it is, hot rain, and clouds, all in the dark, and I breathe. It rains and rains, on my head and down my back, which wants to let go of this tension. My hair yields to the torrents which do not care. I could drown in this. If I were a weeper, I'd weep, but I am a breather, so I breathe. I could sleep in this water, which drains beneath me, pours down from above.

Are we not all alone? 
I am alone, and it is both relief and safety. 

What is the weight that weighs me? I don't know. I think I am sad, all the time, but I've learned to not let it stop me. My sadness is with me in all moments. What brought me this sadness? I don't know. I've had it forever.

I could cradle her in my arms, and pet her hair. She's quiet, and she is not unkind. I could love her, and she would still be sad, in this soft, close-but-distant way. How could I be lonely, when she is always here with me?

All these beautiful autumn couples. Grey days, & love. It must be love. What else do you call a sweet companionship?

Sirens in the distance; there was an accident. I am in a cab.

If I had an office, it'd be the backseat of a cab. Or on occasion, trains. It's the transit. Movement in the cityscape brings me calm; helps me focus. I always have everything I need. Lucky pens, and favorites. Paper, all heavyweight & lovely in their notebooks. Water; coffee, in a clear, whimsical container. Sci-fi stories. All the vitals.

Keys, if I ever want to go home. I never have to go home. 

Or keys, if I want a rooftop in the city. Keys, if I want in, to a mental ward, and keys, if I want to lock up a bar, or open one.

I have candy for children, and coins for wishes. Tissues, for the woman who begins sobbing, uncontrollably, on the street. The emotions overwhelm her. I don't take her photo, but she is beautiful. Women cry on the street, in the afternoon. All these strangers walking on by, on the avenue, and it's all this strange safety, because no one is seeing it, this breakdown; this breaking of her heart.

Someone is breaking her heart, and all of her life, this apartment, that job, those friends, right now she is only tears, and her knees which can barely hold her.