though the quiet has come i've not written much. it's raining in Wales and i sit on the stoop of their National Gallery, awaiting a tour bus. my dreams at night my only voice to the ones i love, at home. through them i speak often and freely...
it's raining in Cardiff. if you don't think i'm speaking with you you are mistaken. you come in the moments in the dreams in fleeting glimpses. and i remember you, ken, our small little spanish towns. lauren, the Queen Motha. jess, the bank of scotland (how precious, i know). and others, in the rivers, in the lonely pubs, in the cafes. every park, every castle, every lover holding hands, all of you are here, this is how i go on.
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