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Each center is inescapable – a vast garden in exile spilling out the kept flora like a reminder of perfection never to be truly touched. The brief, sweet taste of juices glisten on lips, then evaporate as they are known: the fruits of each from their own species, distinct, and further still, within even the same species, unique. Only curious travelers driven to move through the wider comfort of in-between, understand the language common to all: light reflecting clear from growing fields, the afternoon air inhaled as a shared breath, clouds of bees moving within purpose, or strangers sitting without speech simply to reminisce silently all that may yet be. You see, as you allow yourself see me from the outside, the center where love holds me in place, within my own exile, immobile within the in-between that longs to wander in its own intricacies back to the garden where leaves reach forever up toward the skies that fill us and down beneath the brown earth to draw life – where I am only imagined in pieces, orbiting the flower of your purpose as it has been left, to be taken up, and worn as an emblem celebrating the moving beauty of circles. Thus the traveler never brings his bed yet rests exquisitely in the wasteland all travelers make their own – gardens laid together through reflections on the field, the morning air between night and day or evenings lulled with the smell of growing, spread by the buzz of a million bees flying as one sentient cloud, formed by our midst.