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002. Somewhere Remote This is how flood lights read objects in the early evening. Somewhere remote the chain rattles on a tetherball pole.
The rhythmic tinny din carries its neuronal strike inside anyone who hears it. The emulsifying mechanism of gravityfs persistence.
The gauze curtains inhale the outside air infused with the smell of mashed up grass, moist dirt, wet stone. You want to say:
The cars hiss by my window with a sonic boom. This is after the city lights rained down in Technicolor and the puddles unfurled long,
lank, and sinking. All of it tightly bracketed by the slow drive belt of the traffic charting the grid. The spectrum breaks into pure color panning to black:
a zeppelin crow lifts, greased and slow with water it ascents a hachure of branches. You follow its plummeting as it closes in on a slate blue wrapper and tin foil set cozy as quartz in a supermarket trolley. Parabolic, the birdfs carbon wing traces where the mortar meets the Tyndall of this cutout building,
dizzy from the avian logic of the halogen tiltcfading to whiteout.
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