Curtains strewn up like a bad theatre play, rooms divided and subdivided.
The fabrics seem to breath in the wind - the howling cold wind, sent to fret.
Drapes hang in a gesture of privacy, walls being built, yet they don't even block out the cold/keep in the heat. The fabrics seem to breath in the wind - the howling cold wind, sent to fret.
They hang in an attempt to partition space, like Japanese paper walls.
Their illusion becoming as transparent as the walls in my mind, as they blow in the wind, I can feel my thoughts tumble past.
How easy it is now to see Me, standing bare and strong, in amongst the hanging fabric of my reality.
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