It’s always beginning here, the lights rising in the evening sky, a sea breeze weaving through stone-smooth alleyways, music is always playing here; the waves sing to the rocky shore, a chorus of voices builds and softens on the boardwalk, the foodcart’s wooden wheels clammer through the street, life is always blooming here, spring flowers opening and closing, seeds sprouting in wet earth, your hand opening and closing around a glass of Esther in the moonlight as you laugh, as you tell your story, a story that’s always beginning and never ending, and here you are. 
You step into the street, lights glowing in the evening sky, breeze weaving through stone-smooth alleys, waves singing to a rocky shore, voices building and softening on the boardwalk, kettles whistling with boiling water, spices sizzling in a hot metal pan, glasses clinking and filling and emptying as smiles broaden and laughter deepens and you look into the eyes across from yours – they tell you a story with no beginning and no end and you understand and you take a sip and the chorus of voices begins to sing, the stars like small fires dancing in the sky, and you step outside into their bright light, into the story that’s always beginning and never ending and here you are. This is grass in the field, the green grass that burns, flames licking the bottom of the sky at the end of the season, this is a season when time unfurls in a smooth ribbon, smooth like jazz, like honey, like hints of honey, of grass, of spice, of depth and of lightness, lightness like how we feel when we are understood, when possibilities present themselves on a silver platter, because after all, this is a story