Late for the rehearsal in a hurry I enter the chapel and
no-one is there.
A shock. An hour early.
I am surprised to be admitted into nothingness.
I wait for something.
Some muffled creaks.
The zip of my bag is too much.
Looking up, the ceiling seems to be a perfect imitation of a ceiling.
Pastel blues, greys, greens, geometric vaults overlapping
soft depths from hard wood.
It is a dream of a ceiling.
Alive - hanging in the far corner - a candle.
I imagine someone lighting the candle.
I try my flute.
A single note reasonates beyond itself,
Becoming a house of mirrors, reflecting itself,
reflecting me, reflecting the room.
In this space, things refract
in a single note.
I am early and eager to capture this.
To write it down in my stolen time.
I leave and merge into our crowd, I buy
a paper, a coffee, I start to lose it - browsing
the stationary, the booze snacks leisure wear displays
the texters, the chatters, our days...
I write some words. I play my flute.
People, noise, dreams.