and perhaps that is it, you know, she said, he said, turning over the page, folding the cover, and that is how things go, and along with that gesture are swept a million different things along the line, and things that I will not forget, like the lantern light, like these hand gestures, like train rides going north, like looking upwards at the sky and those yellow leaves, like all of these, and they remain, residue, layers, accumulating, and I dream of a loft, and I dream of a space, and large skies, and tall clouds, and sun streaming sideways across a canal, and faces, and these faces and gestures and movements, jumps, brightnesses, and this is all jumbled together, sorrow and release, departure, good-bye, the horn of a boat, the sterile ding of an airport's chime, goodbye and hello, here we go, ebb and flow, and I am here looking at this all pass by, wash by, and where am I, and here I am, standing here, watch this flow past my ankles, goodbye, there it is, there it is, there it is, there it was.

and so it goes, another sorrow lost, and then more's left on the field of wanderings, where walls crumble into low stone walls, oceans turn into rivers, there's just nothing but movement here, movement, choice, direction, agency. do you choose to go? you go. we go. I go. and so it happens, and we flow, go forth, they will say, and so that means a shift in the world, a change in my understanding, our compasses split, and things healed and hurt, and in the midst of this is just nothing but the present, but the now, which is an absence, and so currently just a simple goodbye, a goodbye, a goodbye, a goodbye.