The land. Through time. A change in form. Conquest. Loss.

It's very subtle, almost quiet, that moment between contemplation and motion, between thought and scenario; a man turns a page, a child laughs and plays with her brothers a few seats away, the bus growls and sighs at each burden it dismisses and accepts. Within all these things, a destination is taking place. A transformation as the City scrolls past the windows framed by moments between consciousness and dream.

It's very subtle, almost quiet, yet he turns the page while the cinema of the City plays out around him; unconscious that even he is playing in a story that involves us all...

And there they were. By the window. Now they could do a different thing. They could listen to the sounds of the the city outside. Usually it is their job. To produce music. Sounds. Symphonies. Now that the daily break had come they are free, to listen. To the music. From outside. And we look. Trying to imagine their absent poetic sound. The luthier will be back. Soon.

Who am I?

It's an ancient question even the most remotely sentient homosapien has either uttered it or thought of it at some point in their lives but this is his life, which casts a vague uniqueness; not entirely epistemological, more so into the metaphysics of human nature. The bus rides seems an eternity, especially when these questions stranges the mind, one becomes aware of how unwelcome the vast horizon becomes. He tried to focus on today's paper. More of the same: Cooperation fighting to gain control of their dwindling assets, skirmishes and wars breaking out in foreign countries, the government still trying to push the docile beast of public duty over its half-witted subjects and politicians--mindless serpents--still gambling over public ignorance. He put the paper down in despair. He thought about his two sons and their families. His youngest just had his third child, Amelia, but they only sent him pictures of the newly remodeled room and the crib. An empty room! Who sends their father pictures of empty rooms? His eldest son would send him medium format photographs of places he's been, of things and, what he could tell, of vacation spots he and his wife were on but none of them showed himself nor his wife.

I am 56 years old. I work security for an industrial firm in Van Nuys. I have two sons who never step foot in the house after we sent them to college. I am married, for 32 years now, but haven't seen my wife for twelve of those years... He looked down at his hands, they were tensing up, shaking violently. He didn't understand why he felt so much anger. The thought of returning home night after night to an empty, desolate home burned, to the very core, his heart. They were away, far beyond his reach. Soon, though he dared not think it, he might forget them entirely. The hairs stood on the back of his neck and he felt a cold chill pass. He rubbed his forearms, looking over, unconsciously, across from him. A strange woman seated with an unusual skin color. piercing black eyes bearing a hauntingly beautiful yet expressionless face. Their eyes met a moment. He saw, for the brief time his eyes investigated her, a gold necklace with a pendant in the shape of a heart. In the center of it a name he could not pronounce: Dauthr. He unconsciously touch his chest. His heart was racing. He was perspiring as well. He turned his head away and closed his eyes. Who am I? He grinned at himself. 'My stop is coming up. I guess I'll find out then.'

too much all the time. more nothing.more absence. less less of so much.