I wander.
Collecting flags and the thoughts that belong to them,
like pebbles that pave the ground for stories to roll on;
bumpy and incomplete, but pretty in the right light.
And sounds of swaying with closed eyes
can become what you want them to be.

I remember a stillness
that created itself in the wake of intensity,
not far from here.
On a hilltop, overlooking a valley,
drenched in 5am and looking, silently,
toward the day.
My tent rolled up on my back,
my back, unrested,
and warming roads aching for the kiss
of new tires,
on that summer's day in Valeč.

Now,
further round the clock,
I find myself at ocean's shore,
where the waves wash rock faces clean,
for a moment,
before dropping their salt and sand
for the next wave to wash.
And only meters away,
the calmed bay's waters
push gently against the creaking hulls,
and creep, quietly, over toes.

Stranded, I feel for the first time.
What it is to be.
Far from home and wide awake, at last.

Eyes wait to be met on sidewalks
and boardwalks,
and voices wait to be heard in long talks,
and birds squawk
on the sea wall
outside my cabin;

The voices that had been
my endless musical accompaniment,
during those long, hot days,
in the shadow of ageing ambition,
where my mind had created a world
to live up to,
and lived up to it,
experiencing something quite unique
as a product of itself.

My days are numbered,
like frames on a roll,
and I count them accordingly,
weaving in and out of scenes I keep discovering,
with actors from all the world.

And.
There is now again.
And again.
And always another now to be inside of,
where now will be turned into then,
printed, permanently,
within reason,
and turned on the cassette,
to be forgotten,
after a while has passed.

But there is no use
in rewinding the reel,
only to expose it again,
ruining the only copy, forever.
I can only keep rolling
and see what I can fit on the remaining feet,
inches,
and frames.

I turn the key
and listen as I begin to spin the world,
all by myself.

And nobody notices a thing.