Late night between thursday and friday, I'm in a car, passing places where events have taken place, stories been told, hearts broken. They're dark and cold now, almost dead, as if nothing ever happened. Where does time go when we rush past it, where do we go when time rushes past us? Who's moving and who's standing still, waiting for something or someone?
I remember just driving, having all the time in the world, never thinking of a better tomorrow. Passing places that were alive, feeling alive.
I fell asleep and dreamt about butterflies, again.