There is a catalyst headed straight at me. I can feel it. The ground is rumbling and a picture keeps reappearing in my mind. It's a house on Haight street in San Franscisco from a novel I once read about a man who fell in love with a hippie woman. Who knows where I found the image, I thought it was packed in a box in the attic that is my mind. But it's now unpacked and I am painting the walls and Harli is there, sleeping on a vintage green sofa. I'm barefoot and there is paint on my toes. I leave trails of foot-print shaped paint stamps all over the gorgeous hardwood floors and surprisingly I do not care. I'm happy and laughing that laugh that comes from somewhere deep inside your core. Someone is with me but I cannot recognize them nor see their face. It's like I am blind to only them, I feel so unfamiliar but also so comfortable. I reach out and try to touch them and they slip away, like a child's game of Marco Polo they dance around me. I can feel their eyes on me and I can hear their smile, when they move I can sense the air around them moving too. But as badly as I want to see them, to know them they are still invisible. I feel warm though and I know this all sounds so strange but I can see it, the warmth. As random and out there as it is... it serves in a way as my inspiration, my inclination, my catalyst. I don't mean to say that I want to live in San Fransisco in an old Victorian house, any house will do. I mean that I want that feeling. To have love dancing all around me and I can't see it but I can feel it. And it's mine. It's messy but it's mine.