South Tacoma Way.

When midnight seems to transcend through me and the hours to 4 am I stir. As I listen to melancholic chords that harmonize and synchronize my heart to distant ideas of home I am awake. I am awake in my stillness… in my sadness and in my unsettling soberness.

I am dreaming on South Tacoma Way. I am dreaming of fields of grass after February rains toward the back of the baseball ditch just left of the track and field on which we use to run. The trains of life are long, and intersect at distant stops like San Antonio where we are… where we never thought we’d be over half a decade later after half a decade of silence. Train stations are funny.