She's raving.

The shower head is a symphony of shrill cries of hope. The paradise trumpet blast. Some make it in, and some must remain outside. A barking dog beckoning its owner's arrival; it knows the sure faint sound of tires rolling down the street. 

Each part of the day has become an inspiration, once again. Mind you, most of it remains in the mind and never etched out or painted. 

The sink becomes a floor to dance on or a soapbox. My face becomes a blank canvas. A toothbrush becomes a bullhorn. 

when you're in your own world too long, you begin to imagine you're not.