A large empty room, tie slightly undone. The quiet hum of a violin’s strings.
Slow movement at night. Watch the snow fall.

Empty space.

Sweating clear drink. And say he sits. Leaning into his squared black chair.
Thoughts fade as snow dances. It melts as the dark room holds no demons to the own window.

The night is quiet.

The moon dances full.

Profile: Jon Topolski