On and on...

The rain falls outside this window. Inside the room is a mess of perfect angles and smooth surfaces. The couch really is a couch. The many who have joked, made love, and cried on it have left no further impression worn spots here or there.

But I don't want the couch to be a couch. I want the couch to be the repository of all the universal truth that has brought it to me. From the foreign men who made and it and hauled in across the ocean or in the backs of trucks. I want the person who first saw the couch in whatever showroom and said yes this is what I've been looking for. Who was he? What was in his mind? I want a little of bit of each weary person who has cast himself on the couch for a bit of rest.

I want to believe that this life can be a little of what I felt reading Hemingway or Fitzgerald, that life was not merely the sum of its components, that beauty once dissected with reason could never be reassembled, that the human spirit was more than the megalomaniacal hallucination of cell interaction, that life was not simply reproduction sandwiched between growing and dying.

I know that the night is the same as the day and that things in the night can not be explained in the day. And yet...