I look for light catching tops of waves, whether moon or sun breaking on beaches, quiet times in old libraries, a chair, by leaking gas fire, the radio gets morse code bleeps of scrambled short wave static from starclouds, galaxies, past and future, and next, you tell me it's all real, not a figment or invention, and that, my friend, means that today is the day the light whips through all this grey matter and silence