My Medea. . inside the labyrinth walls. there lies a tiny child who sleeps alone. and as the daylight falls. the wind becomes so wild across the stone.
Why am I walking barefoot. Upon this road with no one around. I close my eyes to this decision. The night's like coffee to my tongue. Like waking up without a sound.
Mission Street is a striking dark-eyed stranger. Who speaks a language I don't know but long to learn. Its cadences fall endlessly beyond the windowpane.