The beatings of that instrumental accompaniment, that colored drum that be my heart, often creates a rhythm that even I cannot follow nor dance too. I don’t expect to whirl the wind, but rather to be whirled by it. I don’t account for comfort, for it is in the uncomfortable that I reside best. I never thought about sex without love, for I was unaware such a thing existed. I did once sense an end, only to realize I had been fooled by the journey. So I am, in a word, absurd; so I am, in a metaphor, my heart. When I claim to ignore it, I am in fact hanging onto its every word. When it calls to me, I answer, and when I don’t it aches for days, almost as if to say, You have forgotten me. And, on the occasion that I toss it away, and its had enough of my abuse, tips its hat, and hops the train, I wait eagerly for its return. Standing in the station, breathing the steam of its running feet. Eyes welled, unblinking at where it last stood, my hoping for it to come back, before I harden and turn to stone in the Station of Statues. Those cold souls, who gave up the absurdity for the logic, and shunned their hearts to the point of no return; this is my greatest fear. To live by motionless lungs, concrete feet, and gaze forever fixed to a faraway. No, let the instrumental play; let me die in absurdity, for I boldly demand to streak into the horizon as a color of unknown origin. Unseen, unheard, but felt, as the moon does feel the tides of the sea. As a woman feels a man’s kiss in a daydream. As a soul does feel the pinch of destiny.