Meant

I love the empty streets at night, here we are infinite and quiet, fine light moving across depth and width, size, shape and colour, all things interchanging, what if I told you my memories were distinct but indirect? Would you, know what I mean? Music is always the thing closest to home, so much weight in the invisible, it’s a tiny hidden island sleeping on warm waters, underwater plates jostling for position, intense pressure, time, chance and darkness, to give a benchmark for all else, definition by absence and all that, caricatures and serious words, the more intended something the more it is refuted, the vaguer the gentler, imagine how much goes into each note, what had to happen, the universe in all it’s absurdly complicated positioning, all things leading us here to this moment, giving us this moment, though we feel we own it, it’s not really ours, it’s just time, relative, the space you occupy doesn’t care about the time, or whether you are there, you’re just another concentration of atoms, everyone knows that in space nobody can hear you scream, but, we forget that really the important part is that sound only exists here, where we are, and a tiny handful of other places in the universe, it’s focused on the wrong side, if David had played in space, even the lord wouldn’t have been pleased, it’s not just the act, it’s the place, there is so much specific to us, that we find ordinary now, which is thoroughly extraordinary. Everyone that has ever lived, has lived their entire lives in the present, even though we see the things as being in the past and even though we assume there to be a future, no one has ever experienced them, but still, we’re sure of it.