You say these things to me, and yet I never ask, I've never asked, but you tell me anyways.

Time passes, memories flood, the sunlight blinds everything. My heart skips a beat, I hold my breath. The image of that night devours my vision.

I can see what he took scattered on the floor. The image is almost beautiful if it weren't the contents of poison. I have to hold him up, rock him steady, it's not too late.

He's much bigger than I am.

I've got to keep the motion, and I can't stop. I have to keep steady. Not too fast or not too slow.

All I can hear is my own heartbeat, the blood pounding in my ears. The weight of him against me.

Our hearts must become one so he can move, so he can wake up. I can't give up. Not too fast; not too slow.

I think to myself, "we all have to die sometime." He is so beautiful, even in his sleep, in his deathly sleep, he's still beautiful.

I'm getting tired. Just a little longer. Keep steady.

The beat, the sound, the blood between, the motion, the light, and the fury.

The plane ride was easier than I'm use to, but the confined space and gravity never fails to bother me in some way. Trying to figure things out these last few days have been easier than I would have thought. I feel like I'm standing in the breathe of the doorway, and I've been standing at the door ready to leave for some time. Reading and learning about Bob Dylan's been also strangely therapeutic for me, mostly because I seem to identify with him a lot more than I thought I ever would. Watching No Direction Home was a bit of something and reading his "autobiography" was more of a trip.

Reading Chronicles was so strange, I understood where he was coming from and maybe where he was going, and just how it is. I guess I did a lot of growing up and felt a lot more world weary than I thought. The weaves of his travels seem to be what the stuff mine are almost made of, they have that bit of no direction home quality I'm not all sure I like. Still, it's giving me reason to move away from that door. Being strong in the face of uncertainty is always hard. Knowing what I want seems to leave me knowing that maybe I should know and should just carry on aimlessly, for already want and knowing seems to steer me further from what I want.