What kind of beauty gets up and walks away? Its the kind of beauty that you can’t touch. The kind of beauty that gets up and walks away. Like a song so good that you want to feel it but the sound dosen’t take on that kind of form. It’s the beauty of a thousand times. It's the beauty of a thousand ways. Like a walk down the street at that perfect time of day, when the world is right and the air hangs fine in the air. It’s the beauty of a thousand thoughts. A scream at the perfect moment. A trash can full of hot rocks that sits on the corner one moment, gone the next. Walk don't run across the street of a thousand perfect moments. The replete version of a dream that you’ve dreamed a thousand times but can’t get it to flesh out in the world of asfault streets and galvanized steel trash cans. Nobodys dream but my own. No ride home. No walks in pairs. I can almost taste it. I've got the smell of it in my nose. I've held it in my hands, but it gets up and walks away.
from Some Wierd Sin by Brendan deVallance, 6-21-91
