Rain Drops Blind Sun Spots

Frustrated with the lack of living in this life, you emerged from the depths of an inverted plane; a map tacked to an old cork board. You came to my home, arrived in my den, where I am when I’m not sleeping, wondering how to find your way. I walked before you as streets like canals washed us along, under arching foot bridges and between houses packed tighter than matches. We shared a brief smile, an all-too-fast embrace, a final word and then you were off. Your submarine whistling through city streets like how the Beatles once sang. I see it all spread before me like a fever dream, not like when one wakes up screaming, but instead when one wakes up believing that all visions just seen are fated to pass. It was like fucking on the surface of the sun.