One of my friends was a bird, the other a cloud.
One was a drummer, the other a spectator.
In the night I’d wake to a noise and the faint smell of dirt.
The G-clef tattooed on my lower back is the one for the sweet music sounding.
One of my friends was a rising star, the other candle I carried into the night, convinced it was hiding in the shadows of the star.
One of my friends I drank, the other I dreamed.
In the revolving door of my becoming, one strayed loose, the other standing still.
Thus my troubled birth, my endless search.
One was a thought, the other an action.
How they amused each other.
One was a sonet, the other a serenade. I was ashamed of listening, embaressed I couldn’t understand.
I was a boy calling across the wide sky to a heaven he didn’t have.
Inget är klart. Mycket är oklart. Inget är bestämt. Mycket är förutbestämt.