It is the heavy glass and the first taste of harvest. It is the mocking bird and finch springing through the vines still laden with green grapes. It is the dogs and their diggings, and that failed cat so slow to die. It is all the streaks in the sky which will give way to sparks, the line of light just above the horizon as we catch this last sun-struck breath before we dive headlong into another warm cavernous night. Already I hold my head under. Already I treat the world like a reason to hold my breath.
Shadows pour in the windows, fill the rooms with such supple puzzles and hidden wings. The doors are left open, metal screens the sieve of such legions even hell would envy. All our gateways, all our parts. Some spent, some waiting, some hectoring from the lime lights, some whispering from the wings. All the world and all its players, all the strays and signs and similes. Soon dawn will lose a portion of its host. The days contract until they flay the flesh from our shoulders. The nights grow cool and deft and too beautiful to trust.
So it goes, painting your way into corners. Each choice lays fresh limits, each stroke another boundary line. You try to coast above the errors that pursue you, until that flaw with speed and teeth finally locks jaws on your tail. Then it is all sentence and consequence. Pomp and punctuation. Some of you will choke down delay, some of you will be born anew. Some will take the measure of yourself and this bitter and figure out your way. Myself, I forget how to count, and my vision dims to a few odd bandwidths. I never see clearly any middle paths. I am left watching hobbled starts and rash ends, enduring the natural hyperbolic confusion of the two. I serve the world in distinguishing the paint from the fumes, leaving steady footprints trailing through fresh paint.