My inner may well resemble a sinkhole. A cavern of dust, putrid soil, how can something grow in this emptiness? The book remains. On my lap, J.D. Salinger’s „The Catcher in the Rye“. My little title of freedom when there is nothing but rain covering my plot. New York, I yearn to be swallowed by your streets. So far, the big apple, I can tell you that. But I would rather sing of these very pages, mechanically stuck between two covers, title and all, print and story. Phonies.

I was referring to the song of a specific fragrance held in these pages as I inhale deeply a formula of time. Reading with my eyes closed turning into a habit for my nostrils. Oh , what wealth in this heated humdrum. The nectar honey is; worn wood dipped into the golden mass by a goddess, resting her head upon her hand, entangled in vines, lapping at her existence. Then set out to dry in the warming rays of the sun , twisting themselves into the fibrous tissue in dire need to unfold the deep , comforting brush of texture I call home.

All of me sinks, absorbs, melts, yes, melts and dissolves. I want to say fades, fades into an untold fairy tale of pages and their lasting fragrance, where really, I discover now, the action is not mine. The inaction essentially unlocks the magic. I am the vessel, on the receiving end of bliss. I will say this: eternity hides in the crease of two pages. Just close your eyes and breath.