In Manhattan. Somewhere between the 1/2/3 and L trains, a man plays his guitar. To call him homeless would be to silence his song. A man so broken finds no home in walls and a ceiling, but in his flesh and his sound.

You can tell he's from the 60s. Playing just like my dad used to play. With every string singing about the sun of greenwich village or the dry night air of Barcelona. And you couldnt tell which he'd lived in all his life.

love is a lot like fixing a sink for the first time

you learn a lot by breaking things.

I stood before the prominence of my soul

hissing through the salt and steam

that i deserve every last bit

of the misery i'm buried in.

but I'm still not sad enough to be happy.

I wish i could mend my veins

with all the roots in the ground between us.

and send my love through the channels of earth,

the trees and the grass, the sun and the sky.

If only for the entire Earth to tell you how loved you are.

I watched out the window, to the east

where the city lights burned into the night sky above,

a permanent sunrise, an eternal rebellion against the night.

but we should not forget,

the only permanence in the world is death.

for the sun had risen before these lights first hummed

and will continue rising when the wires run dry.

you could journey into that nothingness

to see what only the blind have seen,

a darkness much too strong to carry hope upon its spine

unless by force or by letting it go

you wander to that idea of an exit

follow the trail, by echos, by ghosts.

but slowly you come to realize

you're only going deeper.

and you eventually get lost in it,

become nothing in that dark sea.

And die, never knowing what it is

that you were missing.

or

you could bring a flashlight.

to everything,

there is a romantic answer and a logical answer.

love is where that answer is the same.