A tram is a bit like a library. I rode one to the city this morning. And as I watched my fellow passengers it occurred to me I could be watching books. Some worn down, large volumes, with paper yellowed by time, others brisk, fresh, thin copies just out of print. Some simple, some complex, some scientific, some poetic. All put into this tight, moving space.

Each contains a story inside, a huge novel, made up of moments, some sad, some joyful but mostly dull, mundane, menial. The best part of all is they are still being written, moving, changing as some memories fade and others rise, as emotions flow, as views change, as sounds vibrate.

If only I knew the secret Language of the Souls, I could read them, page by page. But I can only sense their vibes, the stirring behind their covers.

And I can browse my own pages of thoughts and cast them into words. Here.