Moisture always brings vulnerability.
Sometimes I like to curl up in soggy wet matchboxes.
Joy is found on thin layers.
Psychedelic colors on the surface of a soap bubble on a sunny day.
The luster of a sliding beam of light on a metal railing.
The tingling of shy wind chimes.
Someone is always quietly singing a lullaby under the lamp shade.
Someone always plays an oriental flute in the Bonsai pots.
There are wafer thin musky smells of adultery in long hotel corridors.
Six billion people are exhaling their griefs and fears as we speak.
Can the earth below take the weight of its compounded gravity?
Six billion people are inhaling elevating waves of vibrations trying to reach cosmic super consciousness.
Won't the clouds above get tickled by its feather touch?
Children are narrating stories through cup telephones.
While adults argue for hours in verbosity without communicating anything.
Old people are taking out their dentures and rolling their tongues.
To feel the hollow black holes in their mouths.
Cats are taking naps under the sun.
Dropping out of time's anxiety ridden static charge.
A mother is experiencing eternity.
Watching her new born sleep blissfully lost in self abandonment.
We must slow down, slow down.
Until life reveals its colored moth wings.
If only we could silence the motormouth in our heads.
The vacant spaces in our room's will tell us fables.
Someone is always calling us far beyond
to journey on towards everlasting light.
Hotel Corridor-- Auguste Chabaud