I sit waiting for some predestined moment, an epiphany hidden amongst the detritus of the everyday. In that moment, the world is revealed to be of a different nature. It is shown to be of clockwork and music, of random chance as purposeful meaning. As an observer I become the scene, as the scene becomes me, an objective view in a subjective reality.
And so she knits, or needle points, or sews; I lack the proper language to tell you how her hands move. I lack the proper language to make those fingers move for you, to make those motions a part of you. The movements and stillness of hands, convey so much, with so little, so fragile a device.
I mistook her for someone else.
When the days are laid out properly, and movements in the void are timed, the symphonies of the streets are polymath, are overlapping choruses. You looked like her. When the day’s performance is proper, is accurate to the composition, a car passes as you hear a song from sometime long since forgotten. I mistake her walk for a hazy memory half blinded by time.
The performance ends with a crackle and a pop, tinny speakers slowly dying. And I cannot describe to you the grace and regret inherent in her movements. Even as her bag is packed, and her coat buttoned tight, the fluidity of evening still gathers about her, still moves her as if timed to secret music. The dance is over, the observation complete. The movements and choruses are left as dirt and petals spiraling in the music of her fingers, spiraling through the clockwork of preordained motions. Her story of secret strangers and swirling crescendos carried on the aether of eternal night. Her story of secret music engraved for all to see.
 
