By Ryan Brennan


There is something in the street;

in the light through the windows

and the patches of sky over apartment buildings;

something in the first gasp of day,

back to life,

and the promise of some great feat.

There is something in the pulsing book beside the bed

and the guitar leant against the armchair;

something in the dishes to be done

and the orange to be peeled and eaten.

There is something in the pen

and something in the notebook;

something in the shoes and jacket in the hallway.

There is something in her scent

and something in her hair upon the floor;

something in her pants draped over the desk

and in her beauty products lined up on the bathroom shelf.

There is something in the thought of what’s outside;

the cars and people passing,

restaurants and cafes, shops and markets,

the sidewalks and wide, glass windows.

There is something in the idea of the perfect place;

perfect chairs and tables,

tea and coffee,

conversation and light;

an anonymous spot to sit still and write.

There is something in the feeling of your legs and body

immersed in motion down the street,

or along a seaside path;

something about the air all around,

and how it passes through and sustains you.

There is something in the slightest touch,

and in the recognition of it as such;

something in the hope of home and dinner

and of words waiting to be read.

There is something in the last light of the day,

which sighs reflectively over every corner of creation,

and something, deeper than your every thought,

which binds you to this unfathomable sweep of being.


Ryan made the mistake of studying philosophy. He has many questions and few answers. He once asked a seagull what it was passionate about. It squawked, snatched his lahmacun and flew away.