While on board, five hundred knots of clouds and words propel my train of thought into fresh (water, please) streams of (plain soda) consciousness ploughing the seamless atmosphere. Turbulent spasms arrest my heart. At that very moment.
Despite the emotional rush that compels me to write in tongues, the distance that has accumulated in years tempered my perspective like glass.
Thus, I am ruining another page in my diary
by not admitting an entry.
Instead I reclined
and pushed back brimming tears into canisters of suppressed spirit.
(in photo: artwork by Mark Salvatus, Osage Gallery Hong Kong, 2015)