It's a beautiful day. The walls aren't too close and the ceiling is smiling back. Thoughts are easy, tiding in and out on a whim. I think of a happy picture; it turns into a bleak one, I think of a sad thought; it turns into a real one. They eventually roll off, carrying a small part of my caring along with.
I think of you, and you, and you, and you. Each bumps up the altitude, down the atmosphere, spins the rest. Each brings me closer to the beloved roof. It's peaceful, nearly ready to open up and let me out. I'm hoping it matches the forecast; silver clouds, golden skies and hot-air balloons the colour of a baby's laugh.
I can't make up your laugh - I don't know it. Nor your voice or your eyes or your height. They aren't real anyways.
The weather is nice; lacquered clouds and glittering skies. I'm bobbing from one drift to another, by myself. The sunlight and the ceiling are my friends. It's a long way down.
Over there I see a bed sunken like eyes, surrounded by countless fallen tissues, notes, mounds of books and clothing. It's a sea of trash in a cave of furniture. A memory or three are probably buried a few feet under. They aren't to be mistaken for treasure.
I'm bobbing on the steam high up. There's a grand sail somewhere near, a pirate party following suit. Jewel-coloured flags flicker.
