every year,

same time, same drill

the entry point of the narrative

a glimmer of sorts,

one spring afternoon

reflection from oceans away . . .

staring at a blank wall

spring has sprung

looking for another exit

staying in,

and not looking out

spiralling down in black & white

amidst the crowd in a vacuum of reality

a passage to nowhere

turning one's back away . . . . .

April Fool's Day,

so foolish . . .