RENT

080808
Another cool date.
Udo and Alfelia are installing my bathroom cupboard/mirror thing. It sounds as if they've hit a nerve of the house, and in retaliation for the gross injustice, I'm sure I'll end up lower than I am, as this second floor house falls to the first. That's why I'm typing here on my mattress on the off chance that my greatest fear is realized. Perhaps he's not screwing it onto the wall. He could be bashing a HOLE in the wall the dimensions of the thing, so that it's like setting inlaying wood, but instead of itsy little pieces of beautiful geometric shapes of would, it's a box of shelves, lights and mirrors. Anyway, I trust his craftsmanship, or at least I'm prepared to live with whatever the finishing product may be.
Today I ran past the sports fields, and down by a pond. The geese did not find my attractive, and took to beating the air en mass, leaving short wakes as they taxied. It was windy, and I realized that they took off downwind: very inefficient. Reeds by the pond shore told me the wind's persuasion by their leaning. But they happened to be leaning over the trail on which I was running. Or at least the wind blew them there. So it was really rad.
As I approached, the wind increased and the reeds bent and I imagined hundreds of spectators offering out their hands for a celebretor slap as I bombed towards the finish line of a huge race. The feeling was all the more exhilarating as, according to my Garmin 305 GPS watch, I was crusing at 5:05/mile. It was totally in the zone, and silently thanked the reeds for their support, then creasted the gentle rise and slowed to a 7:00/mile to catch my breath. The music vibrating my eardrums was slightly edged out the reeds' rustling, and I thought I heard applause! The day is beautiful, and my smoothie hits the spot like a crack shot, the marksman, not the illicit substance.
The last few days could be characterized by strollers. Each day acquired a feeling of urgency as my list-o-stuff to do mounted. But the memories kept astonishment in my mind, and a bounce in my step that I was there to witness what I did.
Thursday, I was driving back from the simulators with some fellows, when we turned a corner at speed and slowed to zero fast enough to lock the seatbelt reels and give us all a small case of whiplash. Why had we floored the break? Well there was an antiquated carriage with springy suspension rolling out into the street! A mother was helping another child do something I can't remember, because my astonishment was fixed on the babies legs jouncing just below the rim of wheeled item. I thought that only happened in movies!?
We creeped forward and to the left to provide a barrier lest the baby transport catch a decline and continue into the other lane. Miraculously it stopped before it smacked the car, but I could see the baby was lovely and unharmed. The mother turned around, looked both ways, and leisurely ambled over to it and pulled it back onto the curb. Certainly an attention-getter!
Today, another mother was attempting to shift altitudes with her carriage. The baby sat facing her, with a little bar to prevent it from pitching forward and being crushed by her feet. But the difference in height from the road to the sidewalk seemed to have escaped her as she was repeatedly mashing the wheel into the curb.
Perhaps this sounds humorous, but only slightly, until I add the part about the fabulous baby's disproportionate physique. His planetoid head jingle-jangled back and forth. We nearly crashed the car laughing at the predicament.
This weekend contains a shopping spree in Nϋrnberg courtesy of a fine lady named Chrissi whom I met at a bachelorette party in this fair city's cobble-stone streets. Sunday I'll venture to Wiesbaden to encounter the start of the Half Ironman there. 2500 participants, 75 slots for Clearwater, and an apparel Expo open all day should prove to be worth a Pulitzer if I was a good enough writer to capture it in ink. But I will capture it in the SD card of my Cannon 7.1 Megapixel. Don't know what's going on tonight. Hopefully a brew with the folks, and some rockin' tunes. We'll see.
Things with Udo have quieted down and I listened to Ben Folds' Ascent of Stan. Freakin hell I miss performing on stage! My plan is to receive my household goods on Monday, then practice the violin in off-time for sporadic trips to Nϋrnberg for the playing of fiddle tunes and the reception of Euros in my violin case.
I've already been successful in this endeavor. A fair few days ago, Bobby and I managed a day trip to this fair town. While walking around with a Beer and Goblet of Red Wine respectively, I noticed this dude who said he was from Romania. He had the entire violin but the vibration chamber, or whatever the container is called under the finger board which allows the sound to resonate. In its place, he (or somebody) fixed a horn which came out the right side at an itty acute angle to the fingerboard. I ambled over, handed off my alcohol, and motioned that I'd like to try. He feigned the protection of his violin, with his body, from the vocal shrapnel of my question. Then I signed that I had played the instrument before, and he handed it over. I started fiddling Irish tunes, and he listened for a few seconds, then ambled out as if I were tag-teaming the audience with him. A lady across the way got up from the table across the courtyard and lobbed a short-range two Euro piece into the case. All in all, Bobby stood transfixed as I made 5 Euro in 3 or 4 minutes. And a small crowd was gathering. At that time, the hoss came back to retrieve his rightful place in the spotlight. I retrieved my red-sloshy, and we jived away down the cobblestones.
Random: In Interlaken, Switzerland I noticed a dude trying to ride more than a few feet on a unicycle. I offered him some tips, and he sarcastically asked if I could ride. I took the thing, set for a man taller than I, but still conducive to buzz off down the street to see the confused looks on my buddies' faces as I whirled a 180 and returned the unicycle to the dude with the desire to ride it.
Still scary sounds emanating. The boys are headed out en masse tonight. Should be worth the trip!

081108
This weekend was another memorable one, though some of it will be more infamous than usual in my mind's eye.
I will write, trying to drown out a dog's bark with David Gray. There are a few dogs in this neighbourhood, though one stresses my senses more readily because it's in a small enclosure just beside the stairs I travel to come and go from this House. This dog is like all others: it "protects" by barking at EVERTYHING, on the off chance that SOMEONE it barked at was a criminal and is now deterred by its bark. I hope it habituates me, and may need the aid of some canine treats to both make it shush, AND as a manner of poisoning it if I can't get it to shut up. Just kidding.
In the way of sounds and words, a BARK is one of the loudest and most peace-disturbing sounds in the world to me. Most sounds tend to harmonize with the ambient noise at least a little. Hell, screeching car tires even seem to be normal when I hear them, although they get my attention. A man at the end of this street bangs a bell around at the end of his arm when he wants to notify the neighbourhood that his fresh veggies are for sale. The sound of an auctioneer has a sort of musical quality to his/her script. But a BARK has never come close to blending into anything for me. It's an angry and raucous deviance from the common chord of white noise in any given moment, and as such I wish it didn't exist. I have experienced moments I thought too rare to grasp, and therefore decided to sit and absorb so that I could think about them later. Then with a dog's bark, I was immediately made angry ripped away from something when I was most open to it. This hurts the most for me.
Friday evening, we carpooled to a town called Dinkelsbϋhl. There was talk of some sweet action, so we followed Samantha (Diddly's GPS) which led us on some unpaved portion, undergoing construction. There was some reticence about proceeding until The Diddley sighted BMW's famous 4-wheel drive and told me to continue. I'm quite sure an old lady with a walker would have rocketed by us if there was one out at this time in the evening, but we did make it back on paved road eventually. We then stopped to check for damage and pee abreast on the roadside. There was none, and then someone noticed a vast array of spotlights in the distance, which we figured to be towards Dinkelsbϋhl.
There were two concentric circles of lights, one larger and higher than the other, both rotating around the same radius. It suddenly came imperative that we find the source of said blazes in the sky.
The higher above us they got, the more ravenous we became. When at last, we seemed just under the clouds their intensity failed to pierce, they disappeared! A cry filled the car, and the feelings of an unfulfilled hunt filled our bloodstreams. But the hunt need not have ended here, and it didn't. Instead, it was refocused on the objective which is usually that of men at this time in the evening on a Friday. We found what we were looking for in a loud bunch of women who sat next to us in a bar with Gothic Flavor. They told us they were headed to party, that we should come, and the walk was long but we would stop at bars to take shots along the way. I would have the pleasure of staying a good Designated Driver, and would enjoy the interaction sober.
The night began to flow into the wee hours of Saturday, and by the time I dropped them off, I had acted as DJ, lackadaisical bottle stacker, German language learner aided by some women more than willing to teach me. When I drove Samantha into the garage, and headed up to bed, it was 0630 and I was quite sure that I'd seen the lights again that we'd seen the night before. But I planned to get up in a few hours and didn't have the time to investigate further.
***
Next I found myself in Nϋrenberg's Hauptmarkt, under the grand clock tower where Charles IV stashed his crown jewels. I had tried to see the cooco-clock-esque display before, but had always arrived late due to my friends' hangovers, laziness, etc. So today, I drove Samantha up, and couldn't quite be sure about the legality of the parking job. I resigned to take the hit of a ticket, if one was written up, because I was NOT going to miss the march of 7 electoral princes around this great figurine of Charles at noon. It was worth seeing, though not spectacular.
As I waited, I formed a paper crane with some refuse which I planned to give to Legalista when I left in the evening. I ended up not giving it to her, for reasons I can't really know, but mostly because I wanted to hit the road to escape what had turned quickly from a swell day into one overshadowed by culture shock and empathic stress.
I suppose that culture shock could be construed as the feelings one experiences when exposed to a new culture. I experienced an astounding situation, and felt a monstrous language barrier which prevented me from doing anything to help said situation. The feelings of anxiety persisted in me until 2100 that night in Wiesbaden, 250k away, with the help of two glasses of red wine and some friends with empathic ears.
Legalista phoned to say she'd stepped off the subway and was walking down the cobblestoned hill to the Hauptmarkt. I headed off to intercept, and smiled as she approached. A delicate hug was passed between us, and we headed off down the street with her two children. She planned to show me some places to shop to allow the Euro look to cover my fair skin. But the day would be filled with viewing the sights, munching the food, allowing Lena to use the bouncy house. I'm not really feeling this flow to write, I feel it's been choppy since I began this entry, but I want this as therapy, so I will continue.
The days was full of me expending Euro for clothing, and she providing pleasant chatter. Alright, I'll cut right to it.
We had just come out of a store where I bought some Lacosta's she helped me choose, and were standing eye to eye on the incline of the cobblestones. I clad in my new shoes, she in humorous mock admiration, Lena chasing birds, Julian asleep in the carriage, everything was a joy. Just after we managed to find that we were both born in May, I broke eye contact and glanced around for Lena. I had been doing this all day, and enjoyed the child's energy and novelty, and was usually rewarded with a sighting of her little pink skirt and childhood antics.
But this time no pink skirt. I brought this to Legalista's attention, and we both spent a moment spinning and gazing. Still no pink skirt.
Lena had been infatuated by a pair of buckled shoes in the shoe store a few steps away, and Legalista went to search it while I continued to pivot and glance. She came out with a shrug, and I smiled encouragement. She told me that she would search a few more stores which sold shiney things, to which Lena was drawn.
After I saw Legalista's beautiful form pass in and out of doorways, and noticed no pink skirt with MY continued pivoting, I knew it had to be more serious. She returned and told me she would search farther up and down the cobblestones and shops. I said I would prowl back and forth with the sleeping Julian on the off chance Lena meandered out of a shop close by.
The language barrier prevented efficient interrogation of strangers, and all I could do was walk back and forth. In a few minutes, Legalista appeared obviously stressed, and started talking in German to me, obviously too anxious to make the conversion, and all I could do was smile encouragingly and shrug.
She bombed off the other direction. I got more and more anxious, and thought the worst for a child I cared for. After 25 or so minutes of walking, I noticed pink flash at the right level with an ice cream in her small mitt. I left Julian, still asleep, swooped Lena up, and and dodged back to the carriage with many broken thank you's. I figured from the way he was pointing, the man was telling me where he had found her, and that he had bought her the ice cream. But I understood nothing other than to guess what he was getting at, passing out Danke's ("thank you's") by the ton. They walked on and I held Lena while and waited for her mother to surface from the crowd.
Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a flash, and Legalista swooped in with arms outstretched, soaking eyes pleading, as I prepared for the handoff. She squeezed Lena as I stood there happily watching the reunion, wishing I could have been more help. Then she set Lena down and cupped her eyes and gently convulsed in a way I no one ever had to. I held her for the briefest of moments as she cried on my shoulder. But that was the only other comfort I could give her, for I was almost speechless. We waited for a friend of hers to arrive, and when he did, I became blatant third wheel. I wished to console her, but the familiarity of the face and his understanding of German beat out my desire. For the next 30 or so minutes, we walked around as she vented to him, and I understood exactly none of it. My cortisol levels must've been off the wall by that point, and I wished to come down from the negative high as I listened to her recount/debrief herself. But I could not as nothing she said made the slightest sense in my brain.
She asked if I would continue shopping, and I escaped to the changing room of a local retailer to make an attempt at composing myself. I came out with new clothes, but the same feeling/anger at my inability to help this woman. I had just experienced a traumatizing situation for two of the SAME language, and my alien individuality there in the street was made all that much more apparent as I was unable to ask anyone, or even console the mother to which it had occurred. I HATED the feeling of helplessness, and couldn't shake it from my mind until later that evening.
I was tired of spending money, and we were thankfully heading back to the car, so I turned down her lovely offer to escape to a noodle dinner, and instead escaped to glasses of red wine, and the company of friends 3 hours way in Wiesbaden. I sang at the top of my lungs the entire way, and was amazed at the venue for the wine fest: the streets surrounding a church!
There were too many people to count, and the wine poured. At 5, pleasantly tipsy, and tired, we headed back to the hotel. But they only took Military ID's for the party I was staying with, and so I was turned away.
I ambled back to Samantha, and crashed in her leather seats to wake up 2 hours later to watch the Wiesbaden 70.3. An older woman, walking with the quick, sharp gate BeachBum does, zoomed by the car just after I opened my eyes to the morning light. She had a volunteer shirt on, so I jogged sloppily out to find that the triathlon was point-to-point, and I would need to take a bus to the swim start. The bus ride took forever, and I thought I would miss the starting gun. But when I arrived, there was plenty of action to see. It was a tread-water start, and the heats were well populated. Cheering, announcing in two languages, heavy on German of course. I got the requisite pics, then hopped the bus back to transition to check out the sports expo and await my favorite leg: the run.
The expo was arranged around a three-tiered fountain, at the foot of a casino with Roman Columns. Rather imposing for a casino really. I walked back and forth, stripping to my new shirt, and enjoying the buzz in the air. The first three of each gender were accompanied by a biker, equipped with whistle and flag.
I watched different forms. There was a beautiful woman across the way, miming the runners to more visually portray her feelings as she discussed their form with a dude standing next to her. I felt compelled to join in the critique, but I still had misgivings, and decided to stay silent, rather than to bring back memories of the previous day's experience.
Then I heard an unfamiliar name describing the steed of a man who cruised around the corner. He had a beard I recognized from somewhere. Then I realized it must've been Faris al Sultan from the Triathlon Magazines I'd poured over. The dude next to me confirmed this, and the pronunciation of his name my ears were unfamiliar with. The day just shot to one of my finest, as I watched the buzz of the crowd, and the strength of this man while he raced to an easy win with a 4:10. It was a childhood dream, coming true! I didn't find him to get his signature on the unopened RedBull I had in my backpack, but on the drive home, I reverently drank the can like it was bequeathed to me from the sports star.
All in all, the tally for the weekend's sleep didn't turn out so well. 3.5 hours Friday evening. I ate well Saturday until late evening, and was on my feet all day. Saturday night, I got 2.5 hours, and had no breakfast, and in fact ate nothing until the evening when I finished the smidge of French loaf I was saving for the drive. I starved for fear of the Esso Station turning down my MasterCard for the exchange of gas. I only had 45 Euro left and would need it to get back to Ansbach, if this was the case.
But there's something about purely experiencing which allows the emotions to forget about the status of the body, and revel in each moment. I rode this wave all weekend, and only slept the day away on Monday to make up for the lost sleep. My household goods arrived today!
I forgot to mention about 15 min of calm laying which lasted until the rain scared me off. It was on a curving bench just near the giant vertical spray in the lake nestled in the middle of the park around which the athletes would run. I reveled in the sounds I heard. The athletes instigated the blowing of whistles as they cruised around the lake. And as this was the first, fastest few, I could track their speed by the time it took for the next whistling group of people to make a ruckus. Shit, I realize that the above is filled with what I think may be typos, concerning the world ruckus and it's noun vs. adjective forms. No matter...
The other thing which sprang my excitement on Sunday was the confusion somebody may have felt when they could see it was raining, but they noticed, as I walked by them, I was wet ONLY on my front. Perhaps, if they were even looking, they would have realized that I must've been on my back when the droplets started dropping. But I enjoyed providing this opportunity for further assessment and conclusion as I walked along and dried from the short drizzle.
All in all, another set of fabulous experiences. One I wish I didn't have to experience, but like the other things I'm studying, learning the language has become all that much more important to me.
Culture shocks. In Morocco, it was the robbery. In Germany, it was the lost child. It brings to bear how important communication really is. While walking home to the Bride-to-be's house, the night I first bumped into Legalista, we ran into a met a dude with Dreads riding his bike. He and his friend told us to go to the castle to meet him and his friends. He couldn't have been more than 23 and he first prompted us by asking Espanol? Deutch? English? I was surprised when he flawlessly switched from English with my friends, to Spanish with me, to German with Legalista. That is my goal. And it will take time. But I owe it to those I meet on this fine planet. I must learn a slew of languages. That may become my new thing. But who knows.
I'm really glad I slept some today after the movers dropped off my household goods. Many things are busted, but I just cared about napping. It was therapeutic to write out the events of this weekend, especially those pertaining to the lovely woman in Nϋrnberg.

081708
This past weekend was awesome after I ditched the weakest links: the rest of the group. There was the decision to stick with and confuse my system over the pure seeming incompatable personalities, or just walk off to my own tune. Freakin-a I enjoy singing, and I chose the latter in a heartbeat. I find them excessively boring, denigrating everything and everyone, waiting for approval instead of focusing on the objective to be experienced. Engagement is a quick look both directions, and a confident and energetic street crossing to the icecream stand across the street. These folks' heads are still turning side to side, prolonging a worthwhile choice, and fearing to even be on the same road with the traffic of others' views. It disgusts me like the stench of putrid urine.

"His eyes?"
"Yes, I wasn't sure what they meant by it. But I think it's adequate punishment for the way he ended that potentially golden life." He looked down and kicked the ground with his feet. She had been his sunrises, and now the sunsets would no longer be the same, sitting alone at the dining room table.
"Look man, I'm really sorry."
"I hope it takes him a long time. I hope it drags out like my taxes." The brief moment of humour was a welcome addition to the conversation. Carboxyl knew that he would have to let Jon's feelings run their course. It was his experience that trying to manhandle strong emotions is like closing your hand around a stick of dynomite.
Carboxyl thought about what he'd heard from the Judge, how the new punishment had been legalized and authorized by those on the Hill. Visual Strobing is what he said, just before he belted "case closed" and smacked the coaster with the gavel.
He couldn't imagine it. His father had taught him what a strobe light was back when his feet dangled in the chairs his bottom occupied. It was truly impressive to watch the motioned slowed by the illumination of specific and regular, noncontinuous snapshots. His mother's eyes focused down, head tilted as she spun Bison fuz into strands. The absolute focus and attention on the faces of the Boyscouts scattered at her feet as his father turned the knob to make the snap shots go faster and slower. It was almost a shame, he rememebered, that his father had to turn on the lights and end such an engrossing show.
But that show was engrossing because it was in a controlled environment. And it ended. Ruino's show would be continuous, random, and painful, until he would be driven insane, fall into shock and then die in about two weeks.
The people who made the film for movie theaters knew something about it. They saved money by experimenting and then using the fewest number of frames per second that would wheel by the bulb, fooling the audience's minds into seeing seamless movement. 18 is the magic number. The chip injected into Ruino's optic nerve would continuously change, once every ten seconds, the rate at which images reached his brain stem. In short, he would see random strobe effect whenever he opened his eyes, and this varying imagery would kill him by overloading his brain.
No one knew why it had the effect it did, but some biotechnician made the discovery when he was attempting to marry neurons with a small micro chip meant to increase visual acuity in the optic nerve of an unsuspecting lab rat named Mickey. So the story goes, post-op when the anesthesia wore off, Mickey stood in place for a few seconds, and stumbled forward haltingly, then stopped again. His chip had successfully integrated its silicon interior to the web or neurons woven into the chord of his optic nerve. But the faulty chip would broadcast what Mickey saw in randomized fits and starts. The technician noticed the Strobe-like nature of the transmissions, and could only assume that he had made a mistake in implanting it.
Mickey's autopsy 6 days later would reveal that his brain had unbelievably short circuited from its inability to adapt to the random flow of information which provided a large percentage of the brain's usage.
Google bought the rights to the chip, worked out the bugs, and provided installations into anyone with 135 dollars to download information and not have to look at a computer screen. Information is not strained through the vitreous humour, but is "injected" closer to the brain along the optic nerve.
The Law Enforcement Agency in the US adopted the chip for punishment purposes, and reprogrammed the chip to mimic the original malfunction, and thus Visual Strobing was spawned.
No longer does anyone have to push the button, inject the nerve agent, or feel culpable. A chip now embedded in 98% of the population on the planet (who takes over hearts and minds, visual filters on the optic nerve instead of having cable boxes which filter out channels, computer viruses which threaten humanity filtered out by doctors) is just reprogrammed as the subject lies on the table in front of the victim's family.

081908
Fucking image: the sunset glinting off a hand full of water.
Finding something so bold as to have lost nothing but indolence in the process of locating it.
Knowing something you hold will last you until you decay into sand.
Watching the glint from the depths of it,
and knowing it lays in your hand.

082008
Set up my Skype, Land line, Wireless, and called millions of people for free to the states. Nicole is on the other side of the planet from me, so I caught her in the morning, as I called at 7 in the evening my time. My writing must improve.

082008
Just finished the week, on WED, and I know not how frisky this evening will become and have determined to write now.
Today, in the office, I enjoyed the carcass of the same spider I noticed the first day I walked it. It's pleasantly suspended just under the window, where it's plans for ensnaring prey were not realized as the window stays closed more often than not.
082108
Something to Burn:
I went for a walk,
Met this bum in the street.
He asked for a dime
So I thought for a time.
"Give me something to burn.
I'll give you something in return."

I searched through my pockets,
and looked at my shoes;
then went through my wallet,
pulled out this bum's dues.

He looked at the bill,
Then glanced at my eyes.
He was standing there smirking,
His face warm with surprise.

He said "boy, I will give,
THAT upon which I live,
From the worst things I've bested,
To the last cocaine I ingested.

It has not a language,
It's pure and it's free,
From the depths of the gutter,
To the heights of the trees."

And with that he let slip,
That which holds us together,
No matter the distance,
Regardless the weather.

It was fleeting, but I caught it,
And it gleamed bright in the night.
His lips spread and he smiled, then
Began walking more miles.

The Witness:
I've seen mothers cry for children lost,
And beggars hold out hands,
When dealers pass the bads for the deal,
And children playing in sand.

When the moment's right,
As my eye glances;
I've seen some things;
Caught others by chances.

Why am I the witness?
How have I the fitness,
To see these moments appended?
They are mere slices,
Of grandeur and vices,
Together as they seem intended.

Perhaps 'tis because I pay attention
To the things which might have slipped the mention.
Farther down the lane, I travel,
But with solitude's intention.

The Trigger:
Just take it and go,
And let it be known,
I've run this long race,
And not been overthrown.

I've found my calling,
I've found the trigger:
It's empowering something:
That something is vigor.

A Kiss:
I could see he was thin,
And her hair was yellow,
She was a lovely girl,
And he a handsome fellow.

She reached her hands up,
To snake around his neck,
Their eyes all closed tight,
There was no hunt, no peck.

Their lips seemed guided,
Their faces both fell in,
Their tongues slowly slithered,
As if guided from within.

I watched this kiss from the park bench,
And sat transfixed in the light.
There was such subtle power there,
Such positive delight.

I was suddenly up,
And on my way.
To leave them with their selves;
To leave them there that day.

My heart seemed slightly gladder,
My mind dwelled on no mangy matter.
I walked on the curb for a while,
Then noticed my lips were split by a smile.

Silence After the Show:
I heard it stand and saw it grow,
That silence immediately following the show.
I breathed it in,
And knew again,
It was what I've always wanted to know.

I wish to wrap it 'round my hands
And casually weave it in to strands,
To make the blanket I clench tight,
That keeps me warm on dark, cold nights.

We all need something to push us along,
A helping hand, or the right kind of song.
And what I want can be found in the night,
It's not molded firm, but broken right.
Not the sound of clapping, or the feel of new snow,
But the sound of silence, at the end of a show.

BACK at Me and Smile:
Your voice is wholly listenable.
I find you irresistible.
It's not that I wish you, for your sex,
But that I find you sweetly complex.

Believe it or not,
For some reason, in some way.
You engage me most,
When you're looking away.

That way I can watch,
A sweetly candid you.
Full of apprehension sometimes,
And sometimes full of blue.

But the times I cherish most...
Almost feel I shouldn't mention,
It's when you happen to change your attention,
To glance BACK at me and smile.