The rain comes down hard on the skylight above my room of mirrors. Cold air from the machine accompanies me. I think about chopping my dark locks, but they are the mood to me when I am wearing somber expressions & white. I wanted to struggle & write a love song, or fall to the music of a different soul, but all there is, is summer rain in the evening.


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I'm sitting in a room growing dark, listening to the songs of a stranger's soul. Blues and blue eyes. Is this a love novel? Every true story is a journey, a narrative on transition, on growth and loss, and going home. Where is home? I am already home. The sunset's coming out for me. Storm, yea, but there's evening.