Thinking quickly I write before it is too dark; even now the tip of my pen vanishes into infinity and the words appear on the page through sheer force of imagination. A cardinal on her polyester sweater, jeans hugging tiny legs like bent twigs ready to snap. The single scarlet phantom of a tree on a hillside painted dead brown. It is too dark. I follow the memory of my own profane passing back to my bicycle's hiding spot.
The moon's magical 'cause it's the sun we can look at without going blind.
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