Repetition

Repetition and the spirit weak. The same journey down the same street. And the eye is caught by a stranger, sitting next to me on a bus, when she could have been elsewhere. So where there was nowhere, there becomes somewhere. So a place to recognize, a place that wasn't before. A place to discover, some place to open the eyes to. And the mind is so full of memories, I wonder about the quality of memories, and their merit. I know that I am somewhat imprisoned by them. I guess that death will set me free. And the souls of the city, ravaged and torn, and I don't wish to be around them I have to say. And I retire to the cube, because there is music and wine flowing there. And the music of an oriental and peaceful nature and the wine is of release. And there are busses and shopping centers on the outskirts of the city, and I think of home and where this particular place might happen to be. and it is the evening before the night. I sometimes wonder when one ends and the other one begins. And in the day there was light in the sky. And heat in the air. Sometimes I wake in the morning dreaming of a new place to be. And sometimes I can't understand why there is no reason why, no purpose. And the other day as I was walking in the city, I felt warmth, enough to tell me that I was walking on the right road. And when tomorrow comes around, will there be changes that I will be able to perceive? Or will it be repetition yet again?