The air smells beautifully, and just yesterday I got to relate it to this very moment instead of past longed for events. It’s the smell of flowers and wet dirt and the sun setting down on the horizon as me and my brother walk to the subway station, it’s going on a motorcycle as the passanger admiring the beauty of the night time in the city, while the flowers still dance their aromas out of their fragile bodies to get me to feel fulfilled. I’m changing, I’m a kid in a way. Being back is amazing I must say, and there’s no room for wonder now, now that would only be poetic. But was it ever otherwise.

This morning it was the would you call me kind of thing, never lived before, but felt like there was something to fix. It’s like we wanted the same but not, and it must be cleared out. Berklee told me they were working on it, and that shed a little light on my day, gave consistency to the hope smoke that’s been hanging from the ceiling and now it is a coloured mural on the top of my head. Maybe all these words with no other connection than the way I feel them coming out relating to what I’ve seen so far do have a way to be understood, like they are really a clear reflection of the fuzzy picture that we all are, an amazing draft.

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