In the shadows, there is a pulse of music. It flows from the memory of old rain, dreaming among moss and whispering along tombstones. It brings the scent of libraries and spring, of cold autumn wind from the sea, of leaves twirling golden to the rain-swept dusk. These are the ether of our periphery, the cosmic ballet of haunted poetry, just around a shadowed tree and beyond a moon-dripped shiver.
Next
Next