To walk the streets you’ve roamed before;

To catch the tide on shifting shores.

Lost to space, but built in time,

Bliss or abyss — a mind’s paravice.

Heap the hoardings on an empty wall,

Storm clouds riding across a barren sky; the pregnant sea, a silent breeze, telltale signs of high tide. Muddy waters, in crests and troughs…

I don’t always see you, but when I do I can’t stop looking.

What are you? I know who it is you are, but what is it about you that makes you behold that magic, which makes my every living moment a dream of paradise.

Virgin. The single most misconstrued word in the history of words, existent and extinct.