Where we put up our ideas and watch them hang, and then we take them down again.
In this space, we speak of the color white, the color of all colors combined, the color
of all of our options, the color of our connection that traverses space and time.
December in the north, the darkness lingers so that even the shade of the moon seems bright.
You reach out and grab that light, the palpable, tangible meaning of life.
You set the tea light on the table, its flicker, a delicate tease of what you might see.
The early shadows barely breathe in that intimacy.
As you look, as you reach, recognition bursts.
Its brightness, the brightest sun reflected on fields of snow, so in that moment the whole room explodes.
We start as a white cube, with a floor and walls.
Where we put up our ideas and watch them hang, and then we take them down again.
And then we take them down again.
Distraction is grace, there's a young black man playing saxophone blues here in the suburbs.
The blues don't fit it much, but I got them bad.
The sound enters me on all sides without warning, reckless like a hurricane wind, yet calm as the aftermath.
And I am soaked in a memory of smoke rising and spreading from my cigarette, like silence, a different night waiting for you.
It was winter and the core of life was on outside, and with snow and large chunks of angelic white, and I waited so long in the dark.
Night waiting for you.
It was winter and the core of life was on outside, and with snow and large chunks of angelic white, and I waited so long in the dark.
I was soaked in a memory of smoke rising and spreading from my cigarette, like silence, a different night waiting for you.
