So there it is. So there we are. Trump, Cameron, Kenny. The thing is, I know, politics, fairness,cruelty, left wing, right wing. I know.And it matters, and I will vote, and I will protest. But now. Here and now. there is something. Not a poem, not a, what? Grand statement? Policy? Confession? No. This is an expression, a conveying of feeling, something that could be a poem, but clearly isn't. I feel smiley face, I feel hope, I feel feathers. They are the things right? I don't know what I'm saying, but I'm saying what I'm knowing. This is more than the main thing, but less than the major theme, the final thing. Or is it? There is the self, the self is the centre, there are so many selves.So many us to make we. We the people. The people as individuals of collective solipsism. Empirical beings of personal history. Personal landscape, personal genetic nature, personal nurture. All, well most, needing escape (hope , forgiveness, chance, enlightenment, answers). The less we travel the more we need flights of fancy, especially if what we seek to escape is ourselves. To not be me, ah that must be glorious, but not death, not yet. This is it, this is me right now in the moment, a record of now, because none of us can take then back. Words. Too many words. But then the song. Talk. Too much talk. Sometimes. Then we float, float on the dreams of ourselves, against the odds: still, though, despite, because, well, because we can, and because we won't give in, give up. What else can we do but re-bound? Our heads in our hands lets us see nothing, but inside. Something, something is the beat, something is so much better, better than nothing. Something, something, something.