Tangled history
                    Cyclical temporalities
                    Spiraled possibilities

                    Freedom at cost; a freedom?

                    Happier even in fear
                    Something new
                    In the woods, all is one
                    Each crack, a laugh
                    Each step

                    Breath neverending
                    in the buzz
                    never stop to think

                    To feel, I see

                    Cyclical history
                    eyes, in darkness
                    mottled
                    into light

                    To see
                

                    When I die, I hope that you will hear the soundtrack.
                    A slow start, a lilting melody; the press of the keys, the whoosh of the pedal.
                    The wet on the lid. The glint overhead.

                    And when the gleam in your eyes hits the roof,
                    I hope you'll hear it just like I did.
                

                    It's not about the body
                    It's about what you see.
                    What do you see?
                    "I see‐
                    A dancer
                    (and a singer, when no one else is there)
                    I see a flash of light
                    An eye
                    Glaring back
                    It's mad at me."
                    No, not mad:
                    Sad, confused.
                    Why won't you like it?
                    "I do!"
                    It's not a body
                    But it belongs to you