Postal Service

Sometimes you just have to get the shot

I sit in my room listening to the Postal Service.

I sit and stare at my ceiling - I drift away into the night.

The lamp casts long shadows on the wall and the floor.

Downstairs I hear Karl and Alan laugh.

And the music goes on.



Music dances and groves in my head, lights pulse, I see myself running, flying over the surface of the ground. Faster and faster in time with the music, I can go anywhere - I soar with the trumpets, keep time with the drums, spiral and plummet with the strings. I can't tell you - I can't show you.

Music where does it come from? What part of nature inspires it? What is finding expression in music? Why does it resonate so deeply with us. It goes deeper, faster than most anything else.


Why?

Why do we sing when we are happy, when we are sad, but never when we are bored?

Why is listening more fun sometimes than partaking?

I follow the notes in my head, follow them up and down, tracing out the beat with my fingers. Longing to live inside the song. I see water falling, hear wind in the grass, and feel sun on my face.


It is late, and I am reflective.


It is late and I am regenerating.


It is late.

It is late