Of the unsaid things

A life's musty archives stretch in the mind. And it conjures wild fractals, stopped twilights of story that we bear with us, unable to articulate, unable to let go of. They walk with us like still-born babies, clinging to the shoulder in corporate spaces, at crossings, in crowds. This is a place for such things. And sometimes, every now and then, is a neat little paper flight among the networked digits of a turning world. This is a place for paper flights.

This is a place for the redeyed wanderer who bears his stage and songs with him. You can stop by, in a space between broken furniture, with poetry, twig-fires and lemon tea. We will build with our scripts, in the wake of cursory dinners, the eaves of a rythmic hut. Let the weight of unsaid things hang upside down in the dark, like bats in our caves. Here, in a dimly lit make-believe, they may blink, and suddenly with a shade of what you have been, take wing.