August 25, 2011 § 1 Comment

The mover closes the curtains, arranges the over-long folds of crimson and olive stripes. She sees the evening sky between the houses across the street. It is the palest pink fading upwards through mauve, periwinkle and grey to a blue of sorts. The day stretches backwards through memory; the morning a long time ago, as long ago as a fading week or year, events strung out like beads on the twine of time. But this moment is coloured-in softly. Eyes and seeing sip it gently.


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