I find that beside the window, I am most at ease, and what with the again-new surroundings, I am content, with a shiver. Delight and a cascade of various feelings stream at the window, a light gleaming through creating a shawl of glittering golds to veil the room. It is here that the pinnacle (with a lasting view) of adoration is evident, the strange new that every day brings, and so this particular piece may be quite dedicated, if only subconscious!
I only think of the perfect thing to say, the perfect way to describe it all, when in the most peculiar situations, or the most unlikely in which to be able to write or note. In the shower, perhaps, or on a brisk walk up and down the hill, perhaps standing before a public bathroom mirror, or catching myself smiling in the reflection of the bar taps. The name glimmers at my wrist.
Lately I have been living, just as I have wanted to, becoming the past in which I miss and never was a part of. Reading all the books with sentences long enough, repeating names of days gone by, sleeping in satin, waking to bird song and coating myself in fine attire. It only grows further backward, with a future before me in black and white, and coming colour. My kitchen often smells so sweet, my living room a tranquil cosiness, my room always seems to be softly ignited in a low shimmered light.
Certainly, it is not that I live an ostentatious life, oh there is so much more to learn, to polish. Only, I'd like to have each day quite sweet in waiting, not longing in so. My, I simply feel unsettled most of the time, but how comfortable I am within my situation at present. And how fearful that can be!
You see, it is only when the table is laid that the cloth may be pulled from beneath it's content and have the full effect of disturbance to the layout. The hairline crack in the china.

It is not written, any of this, with disdain or upset. In actual fact, it is more a preparing, a gaurding of my happiness. Selfish, it seems, but of course I am merely looking after my keep. Listening to the traffic slip by below the window, occasionally hearing the accents of the past playing out comically.

'It's worth trying', a man playing the Devil on the television mutters in one of those lost accents.

When the time is available, I have been working hard upon a particular piece/or two of writing. And so exciting are they, the ideas coming to me in the shower and whilst washing up in my current and homely kitchen. Inspiration in the keys of piano and the longing voices and rippled hair of the noir ladies.
Feeling at home in the company of the gone.