If I played violin in the desert the notes would still stir me, but there would be no applause, just the echos across the horizon. Flat.
If I made a glass sculpture in a warehouse and showed it to no one, it would still reflect the light, even if the light was 60 watt.
Unseen drawings done with chalk on the sidewalks of abandoned school yards would fill up no hats and will be washed away by uninterested thunderstorms. But it would leave the colors on my hands, my knees and my eyes.
I don't need anyone to see any of these things; maybe they don't even exist.
But my words don't hide in unread notebooks anymore. And my thoughts no longer fly out car windows like so many straw wrappers. Flying away to parts unknown. | 
