everything stems from here.
the beginning and the end.
a quiet folding of time
in between microwave dinners and river reflections and kitschy tote bags
and half-written postcards and luggage sprawled in the dark
and shadows moving across white sheets like passing apparitions.
all roads lead here.
all roads leave here.
and somehow, I do too.
this is quayside,
ghosts are most welcome here.
go ahead—