It's a strange quiet, the feeling that everything seems to be going right, but something, anything, could possibly be going wrong, without your knowing it. Knots age and, in their silent weariness, untie themselves without anxious hands pulling away. The dust lives a fast-paced life, but eventually settles down, sits to catch its breath, before someone sweeps it along, someone sets it aflight. Spectres wither in the shade of our minds, and the shade grows lighter with the movement of the sun. Our mind, cluttered with a thousand useless heirlooms. Our mind, cluttered with possibilities. Our mind, cluttered with hopes and fears. Our minds, ours and no one else's.
Let us take leave. Fly away together. Just the two of us. We won't need anyone. There will be love. There will be music. There will be peace. We will starve our minds, so they consume the clutter. We will rest in the radiance of our own notions of what is right and what isn't going wrong.
We will exist in the blink of an eye. A blink later, and we will be no more. So let us blink together, my love.