He took the typewriter from the trash
and sold it,
unaware that he would meet her.
It seems I only told the truth
about what I have lived
to the strangers,
wanders, explorers, warriors,
and possibly some souls in danger.
They had nothing to gain, nothing to lose.
I never once told it to the ones that claimed they love me.
And I turned my head to the Sun,
hoping when it will fall behind the hill as slowly as it should.
You and me, we type, every single day we type
until someday… the typewriters disappear
and we can dance into their light.
James Vincent McMorrow – We Don’t Eat
Light of Soul 