without weight

I enter the wire, 500 miles are nothing I could feel, it's all just figures that lost meaning to me. Light is in me, and time has lost its hold. Connecticut is down, so I take the satellite route. It's longer, but travel is easy, and I like being nearer to the stars. Out there it's like you can hear them sing, faintly, a slow and ancient canon of birth, brightness, death.

The stardreams got me dazzled, life feels like a feather, and I change my mind and jump the jukebox in the diner, instead of going through the phone again. It's an old lovesong, and I slowly glide out into the air, carried by a backing vocal, stretching and probing for impressions to complete my mood. The warm scent of coffee, a dry dust coat hanging by the entrance, a whiff of vanilla from an old man's smoke, the sparkling of cherry cola in a glass, and the soft impressions a teenage girl's first lipstick left on its rim.

Sun I need, so I rush out through the open doors, right into the fragrance of summer. Back, before cars, it was all flowers and hay, and sometimes animals, and some of the others cling to the lonely countryside telephone lines. Me, I find the new ways exciting, the way yellow flowers mix with a hint of gasoline, with the warm dust rising from the concrete, and with the breath of a million people wandering and wondering about summer.

A truck rushes by, its horn honking joyfully at children sitting on the sidewalk. The sound engulfs me, and smoke rushes in, drags me along, spinning, earth sky, earth sky. I get dizzy, and finally manage to break free of this weird engine's dream, floating down a slope to a shallow river.

Running water is my favorite. If you let yourself sink down near the surface, then you can float there without moving, all fixed in the world. And the cool water runs below, the warm air follows above, and if you listen really closely, then you can sometimes hear tiny thunderclaps spark within you.