I think sometimes I think too much, but that's not quite true. Ideas are like instincts, unexpected and unavoidable.
And easily forgotten. Inspiration will fade, morning mist, if not resolved into coherency.
Your room is an eternity away, third floor of a tall building, while I start at the ground.
My bare feet run quickly up green metal stairs -- the metal feels like sand in the morning before it's had time to get hot.
I run faster than I can, trying not to lose my thought.
Too many times I have run these stairs, to tell you something that is nothing to anyone but us, something so far away as to be near inconsequential, except for its context of the moment.
Does anyone else care why the sky is green in that book?
Or what trail the dragon took in the game?
The poster of the cat will stare at me from his place on the wall, the wizards on the opposite wall will cast their spells, and reality will suspend itself when I arrive to speak my piece. For reality has no place in our philosophical discussions, and we do not care to acknowledge it.
There is much to do, homework, work and life, and there s not much time and you worry, you know you cannot finish everything.
Except for the moments when beckoning books and paper fall silent as you ignore them masterfully, your world is full of concerns.
I can almost see you, standing next to the desk, looking for a rock, or a pen, or your calculator -- not realizing that I will shortly be inviting you to leave your sensiblities for a while.
I can hear the Dream Theater from down the hall, as I enter the sun-darkened building.
I can see your open door, fluorescence angling on the threshold, then you shift to Simon songs.
The familiar furniture squares off as I see you in your rust-brown shirt and I smile.
The time has come to speak my piece, and we shall argue the injustice of good imagination.