Puppet

The sound of a piano is heart breaking if the keys no longer work in a lock that used to lead into a room with a couch and a rose bush.
I choose to sit amongst the roses and smell the couch for a reminder of home.
I choose the silent corner instead of the one with the sound of a beautiful moment.
I choose one window but the girl in the view leaves me no choice but to choose another.
Therefore I do not choose, instead I trust.
I trust that the dusty window I now stand in front of will present a view where a violin is only broken so the strings can be used to puppeteer my movement from the stage, through the crowd and out the doors.
To go further requires the detachment from strings, for this, I must admit I'm a real boy and not a puppet set to end up in a whales mouth.


Words from my head, in the morning, when I woke up.


3 photographs
3 friends
1 house