Rare form

I tell stories and they aren't always mine. I pull them from the air. This is what excites me. I am tired of holding back, I am tired of not telling. I am tired of holding my tongue and being good. The stories come to me on the wind. They give me voice and strength. They take me away from here. These stories are the voices of characters, the tale of the open window and the blowing curtain, the music on the ether. The bottles rattling down the alleyway, the moon over the railroad tracks. The stories of leaving it all behind and starting anew, the broken hearts on the pavements and the tears all around the city. Incomplete bus rides and calls not returned, confusion and letters never sent. 

The trash blowing in the wind and the call of the south. You'll find me standing against the decaying and water damaged walls of abandoned houses listening.