My right hand extends to where it grips the shoulder of the fellow straight ahead, perhaps my left grasps the hand of the one jogging at my side. You get the point. You might think that we are unhappy. We are singing. True, it is nothing too lively, but it is loud enough to let us shuffle our feet.
Immobility is the focus of our muted ruckus.
Let s say a disembodied violin hangs in the night air with its cracked bow jazzing across the catgut. It is the sum of earthly beauty. It plays the tune that drives us forward. I ponder this as I sit on my bed poking at my slippers. Sunlight chips a morning wedge across the carpet.