I sat on the front steps smoking and looking at the black night in the trees, in the forest; a few scattered stars up above, little puncture wounds in the nothing, little reminders of mortality, little whispers that seem to say, "There is no real death." I wonder sometimes if we build our cities simply to block them out, to turn away from their silent friendship and forget the implications of their existence, building up our own versions of events, electric inauthentic, blasting back into space, rubbing out the atmosphere, making blank the canvas, putting fingers in our ears, pretending not to recognize an old friend at a party.
Now the train slips up the coastline track, the glorious green of this temperate tropic - trees that grovel, trees that slither, all fresh, all hungry. But I can still hear the chorus in the forest, like something from a hidden memory, incense burning in the magic; the hut standing tall and proud like a gypsy soothsayer expecting you; wooden steps that croaked and a balcony made for soft conversations, little gatherings; and the frogs barking, the owls holding court, the nighttime creatures playing at their wares. We sat among them, cocooned in their warm cacophony, and the smell of wood smoke. I felt safe inside your jumper, and knew you wouldn't mind the stale cigarette smoke I was leaving in the cotton, like a message, little traces of myself, secret whispers, like the stars, to remind you, "There is no real death."