The Brass Ring

(this part is lost) insignificant details perspiring throughout, but I would like to mention one thing; there's always a window. No matter what I’m doing, no matter where I am, to my right there is a small, sacrosanct window. And, every night, no matter who is next to me, no matter who’s in my head, I can hear the rustle of palm trees brushing against the room. I can hear the gentle hush of a crying ocean; the echo of a faint melody calling directly at me in some efficacious method. Through the pale curtains, interwoven with the early light of a rising sun, a shadow looms: filling in a farrago of color combating the color of the room. I'm tempted to look but there's always something pulling me out.

Something hesitates.

Something burns and I can't help but wonder why I know her name is Maria.

I don’t know, I suppose that if I had my guitar, I would play a D minor chord. That followed by an A minor and wonder why she would continue to equivocate, night after night. Maybe I’ve done something wrong?

Anything more puissant then that and there would be a concern, from my point of view at the least. It's fair if you think about it; she has nothing to do with this. In all fairness, I’m not one to have dreams with repetitive motifs, in fact, quite the opposite; typically my night would involve hours of endless tosses and turns, followed by a crippling stare at a blank TV.

I can't help but wonder if somewhere there is a woman wondering, 'Who is Vincent?' One wonders if it would come to light if I found the courage to look out that window. One wonders why is it that I know nothing more of her then her name. Perhaps attach a face to this melody? And I sit here, wondering why I didn’t look out that window?

Maybe tomorrow will ring that bell.

It's good enough in the end, if you think hard enough. With that theory, everything should be good enough.

Everything is all right, one day.