Monday, October 06, 2008

Analect 2.360x



Gray dawn, yellow lamplight amidst trees, burrows. A single racoon, loping form half-seen, bounding from one storm drain to the next...

Or Paris, hidden as she was in the name Pissarro. Or Walcott, perhaps--in Charlotte Amalie, the palmy heat and stone dry fields, sun and cobalt seas... But no, a quiet fog, enveloping, gas lamps and horses' backs, spectral in the mist. Almost unknown, yet light, so light--the brush, the grays--a single truth... Or fleeting reason, made immediate...

Camille...

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