All of creation, moving in front of you, behind you, atop your thick skull, kicked up by a brief rush of air from nowhere circles. A countless number of dust particles in sunlight passed like floating boats on an ethereal ocean in front of your window (the Tyndall effect. Each molecule potentially touching one of your many senses, possibly your sensitive skin, all in a gushing moment. Does it trigger a reaction? What reaction could you mean?
Your aging mind folds in upon itself, forcing you to remember a tune from the Beatles' Revolver album, "She Said She Said."
Incoherently, beauty dusts pearls of pollen off your eyelids and leads you back to music and an unforeseen spooky place, forcing you to enter where you hesitantly view mortality's rocking chair.
You sit uncomfortably, the graybeard that is you, leaning, angular yet resting, a confusing memory of your silhouette in a future year.
A soft and somber French horn caress your ears from the distance. You measure the waves of time and uphill miles that have passed beneath your tired feet and those able to reach you from that room. Unsure if the horn's silky sound is real, each day swallowing the distance, you moan. Gravity and other forces take over. The breath produces the longest and sweetest note from the polished brass tubing of the horn, the wrapped coil and the soloist's breath cannot last, and neither can you, although you listen until it recedes, carried away on the wind, like another deceased old friend.
Lines have captured on your face. You reflect innocently on the many abruptly carved permanent rivers tapering off into a tributaries of smiles. You were lucky.
Another spring brings a single day containing hours straddling Noon, pouring out unseasonably high temperatures. You hit the street and take a long stride the size of the final note from A Day in the Life. Yes, you hit the street. How many more you ask? The number is finite. Spinning Earth, circling the Sun, you accept this. You've seen this movie. In the morning you prepare again, as you always have, previewing your mask, your countenance in the reflection, watching as the fog quickly recedes from the polished glass. Another day this spring full of too much information and growing fainter, a thin and quick condensation from the lungs - gone before it exists, breath out. Another year passes.
Only the God in your heart and your heaven knows the time and place you dare only fantasize about. It's a place of comfort for weary bones. It's a place of solace. This future place may present itself in one moment or in another fleeting decade. You stop there. In that unknown room, where the rocking chair no longer has momentum, and the horn's sine wave flattens, you investigate the mirror of eternity in search of the precious moments become your life. "She said I know what it's like to be dead."