Blindspot.
-
Despite the fact that most of the people who read this blog know me, I tend
to treat it as an anonymous airing of the soul. I pretend that people who
kn...
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
Unrelated Fragments
Downpours glut. Senses
and themselves. Hum
or drone to roar. Background
to forefront.
Smells
become
intense.
Coffee. Dog. Candles.
Ground. Light inside
stands out. Turns wet. Succumbs,
assimilates into noise.
Gray. Sleep.
Or more awake because
---
A camera is permission to look closer. To see through the surface. A deeper glance.
Patterns. Metaphors. Productions. On the house.
Newly framed, things
become
beyond common.
---
That there were train tracks next to Holiday Inns was a running joke. There always was. It became comforting.
Shaken awake at 2 a.m., the bed rattled out smiles.
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