From the last page of a small notebook, dated 2010-11.

Why is there no conscience? There are no bars, only muffled, clanging bells. From across the way you see the one in morals, the one in need of no reform, walking in the meadow outside. With him, that person you admired with your head on the wall, tilted, looking up to stare sheepishly at joined eyebrows and the amiable face that reminds you that for you there is nothing reall (sic) - sounds with no signature, faces without contact and vision without sight. You don't move, but you think of removal. Having a ringing in your ears you take in the sight - train whistles blow and you see that in life there are such visions - amazed at how possible it is to view wide space. Each with a stamp of identity, a seal that you can get your fingers under - latching on and realizing in a wave of clarity that it all isn't a myth - that it's forever true: blue and brilliant. Birds clamor and cry out, perched above the balcony where you sat on the bare floor, tentatively coming out of the haze you were in, extending yourself outward to reach and feel and not be so stained and cold. You look out; you do not take possession of the sight, you do not dominate it; you open your hands and it is given to you before you knew you were asking - the door opens as you raise your numb hand to knock. The wind and the air, all nations and places rush to accept you. You are moved by the distant toll to a life beyond the things you've read or heard aloud or thought. The sound fills you - the mind follows, falls into its right groove. An unheard rippling; sight suddenly gains substance - you see with understanding. Combing through the seconds, you pluck one. The swallow calls.

Your friends drive you home. You press your face against the window: the rhythm rocks you to sleep.