I Call Wind

Maybe it's been as a result of adventure that I seek the wild uninhabited mitopia of existence. Pedaling, heart beating, miles racing, racing against my own breath, own time. I enjoy the escape, the precision, the exactness of perpetual motion. I write this to you now after a moments rest at the typewriter of exhaustion. What if we could freeze the panes of calls and instead call to the voice inside our head. It's been raining until today. The rain tore down the streets last night like wisps of breath coming in and out at regular intervals. The drains were metal, and the pavement was black and the screaming sea rolled herself many times over and many times again. All I could hear was my roof playing music in scenes of gold bracelets flapping in summer breeze. The chrome muscled bars echoed and tapped on my window sills and I breathed. It's funny being thrown into the musical scene of children. They are a whole bunch of laughter and curiosity rolled up and put on rice bowls. The children are lovely especially when they sing. What's not lovely is the sound of chalk on a chalk board or a dry erase marker that doesn't give that nice glow and has lost its power. I tell people about my town and they give me lots of tea and coffee over and over again. Every time I sit down I get either coffee or tea. I leave my glass full to avoid the enclave of coffee explosions. Tea bags are nicely placed, nicely wrapped on stickers that I give to students. They love stickers here, or maybe just kids love stickers. Maybe I just think that kids or Japanese people in general love stickers and really it's just a perception like many that keeps my thoughts up all night even when I fall asleep.