none of it, all of it

The noise is good. It’s lurid, almost sweetly deafening, high squealing delight. Feet disco above me, pitter-pattering this way and that across the hallway, echoing down in euphonic content. Out the window they swing back and forth, the sky safeguarding them in clusters of perfect white puffiness, only the smallest frames of blue peeking out amongst shapes of porcupines and castles.  I sit and listen. I sit and watch. I sit and smile.

And none of it is mine.