oh how i wish that we lived in seperate languages.

edgar allen poe thought of his mind as a house to diagnose himself. i'm no poe,

but i'd like to think of my mind as a room.

a single window, with the light pouring in.

pouring in. philosophers discuss there.

they argue over how to live a life.

they confuse each other. and think each other wrong.

maybe the window is stained with an image.

yes, it is. the light hits flowers that grow beneath the floors.

there are characters from book's i've read.

they tell their stories, and fill my room with excitement.

with tales of joy and sorrow,

and things i wouldnt understand without them.

and vains that climb the walls, purple walls. vibrant yellow floral.

fireflies as night lights, and smokey air.

there are photo albums of things i've lived through.

things that made me myself. a few photos have lost their color,

others have completely eroded away.

they were washed away by the ticking of a hand place high on the wall,

and devoured by the creatures in the soil, the people in the dirt.

sunflowers. peaches. teacup piglets.

there are some things that don't belong to me,

some rockets came through walls.

some bombs through the ceiling, they left footsteps in my dust.

some implanted weeds in the novelty and freshness of my playground.

but i've seen them through. i've been stained a tad.

the furniture is floral and colored.

i've got a table in the middle.

i'm having coffee with the rabbits, with the clovers and with the sea.

we're discussing all things, and all the possibilities.