Dripping sunlight on monarchs while they race over the Rockies in October. Rugged leaves grazing over cemeteries during those silent Autumn months. A continual crack in the soil releasing pages of history and full, wispy spirits that spill out into the patient atmosphere. An endless calculation of the breaths once taken from the lines of mirroring white frames displayed by a single slate of stone. Once so obscurely unique and innocently tucked into colored identities built upon social expectations and historical formalities. Once living by questions and risks and wondering what this, right here, might be. The sound of feet walking across hollow acres of sliced grass, lying down bundles of fulvous blossoms to the condensed scripts of those who got away. Now off tiptoeing in the wind. A presence strolling through lavish gardens and sitting in at readings of literature and listening to music above outlaw field. A gentle, muted haunting off in the intervals of space, not quite where you think they would be. Life that has more to see than ostentatious, velvet lined walls – posed numb in a nameless chest.