You throw the phone on the couch, turn off Netflix and sit in the darkness of your living room. You savor the silence. There is space to just be.
You wonder to the balcony, and stare out at the sky, listening to the train changing tracks and suddenly realize you have forgotten to breathe.
The air smells like sun-scorched summer, having stolen a kiss from the water on the way. You inhale some more.
There is a scream echoing in the soul and the mind is quiet, as you observe the redness of the Mars. The city lights are too bright - you remind yourself to breathe again. There is a floral hint in the earth-drenched breeze. You wonder if you have been breathing all summer.
Contemplation on moral appropriateness close down on you, but you hear your heart chanting "but love...but love...but love...". You remember Rumi saying "somewhere beyond the right and wrong, there is a garden....", you follow and look for a sign.
You consider sleep - a way to make it to the morning. You let the void be. You stay with the void. You remind yourself to breathe again. The summer breeze smells like promises, only - only if you could just believe, in the substance of things hoped for, and evidence of manifestation not yet seen.