I thought I missed the Real. A stream. Trees, whose branches you can hear. And birds. Flap and chirp.
I have to. My real is stones. Hard as cathedral’s. And the real. Sounds run on straight paths, architected. Like fish trapped in narrow sewers. The skies look on. White of clouds moves over it all.
And I remember, with the music pure and too perfect in my electric ears, that this is real. This is beautiful now. Stop crying. It does no good. This is your world. Wishing only hurts you. Moan for it though. No more love here. But you watch it all. You have no choice.