I find myself in a room, warm, flooded in blues and oranges. Friends come and go and there are some others I do not know. I notice that when the door opens, someone closes it each time. I see no one making any sudden moves. We are at ground level, no stairs. Soft fabrics hang from the walls. Sounds of voices glide in major scales, but they do no echo.
No one asks for money or tells uninvited stories. The how-are-you's are not followed by complaints or any other form of twisted words. No one asks for anything to be fixed. I, myself, have no need of repair. No rule in this quiet place other than as-is.
Each of us moves across the wooden floor and not once do we collide.
October 24, 2010
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