Something about the shade, or the way they hover gently over the street stretching curiously on a diagonal slope where a four pm Saturday stumble through stained streets with memories ebbing where lives crossed momentarily and paused didn't stop the sun from setting on a red vintage car where a man opened up the boot to put a bag of spinach in it which he had just bought and a hat to remember as they sit under the veranda sipping coffees and chatting and laughing and talking all under a shaded light with a cafe gitane nostalgia weighing lightly amidst crossed legs on stools and small tables. And the theatre lights don’t go up with a perpetual blinding light, instead they rock beneath the swollen shades as the clock remembers its hands. And starting sentences with ‘and’ has become a habit increasingly difficult to break as to not fear the end of a sentence. And if there is a period, then the ‘and’ can always lead off because are thoughts truly ever finished? And once we reach the finish line, isn’t there most definitely always another one? 
And why is a line always a line 
But a tear is not always a tear
I want to touch the finish the way you finish the line
But is cleaning an erasing where ‘ands’ turn to ‘buts’ and ‘buts’ turn to ‘ands’ 
But does it really matter what language we use to express our utterly mumbled thoughts through rearview mirrors and dusty screens with earnest attempts to convey our selves to one another, forgetting question marks and lazily moving over punctuation markers becuase don't we all know what this is all about
The dusty ballet shoes mean something on the floor where maybe we are all ballerinas attempting to stand in choreographed lines 
And wasn’t that why we could say that jazz subverted those traditional staged choreographies
But maybe there is movement between the lines where choreography disintegrates into certain freedoms 
And we dance hopelessly into one another