While taking a bath, the sound of wind chimes comes to me through the window and for some reason, I feel like crying. Closing my eyes, I see her dancing in a void, and the delicate beauty of it is reminiscent of the sensation of a moth’s wings tickling the insides of my clasped hands. She reaches out. She collapses. She blooms. Sometimes she scratches and when I prise open my fingers she’s not there and neither is the moth but the void is still near and as the wind chimes chime and the branches of the trees call my name she is still with me like the shadow she is. The days are long and the sky mostly empty and the hours consist of mundane work and memories and fire and the lips of women and the words they force me to write and the subtle humming of ghosts that watch me in my attempts at finding the right words to fit these feelings that come and go without warning. Sinking my head beneath the soapy surface of hot water, it’s like I too am in the void. It doesn’t last long, but for a few seconds, there’s no need for anything other than the visions in my head and the emotions that captivate me in their strange ways before they fuck off leaving me unable to fathom yet again what it means to be human. Sometimes I get so morose that nothing shakes me out of my funk. Sometimes I don’t do anything but lie in bed all day thinking about dying and how half of me is terrified about not existing while the other is secretly looking forward to what happens next. People interest me less and less the older I get. They always seem the same. No originality. No edge. Too self-absorbed with keeping up appearances while not caring about the soul, they go through life never daring to take a step back, and taking a step back is the only way you ever see things for how they really are. Which is why I like taking so many baths. It’s just me and my music and these restless thoughts and no one else. Except for her shadow, that is. Right now, she’s popping the bubbles down by my toes, and although it tickles, I let her do it just the same.