Everything is wet and warm and colorful, and I'm alone, no one to share this right now. When once I would not have minded, I do mind now, and there doesn't seem like anything I can do to truly reach out across the universe and share what I feel. The illusion is shattered, and no stories will abate this bittersweet ache.
What can I do to describe myself, when the world of stories is netted in premise and hook for me now, and there is no longer a rain-drenched garden in which I can step, where they will be waiting for me?
Are they there no longer, and is this where I am left, this place, this earth, that I have seen only in reluctant glimpses because I am always looking impatiently out the window into another place?
I want to take a hand that will jerk me into those echoing hallways where rose petals blow in through open windows from the garden, where people with haunting eyes stare. You can't be gone. You can't leave me behind. I will chase you.