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Cold burning the hands.

04.24.24 – Astdoff

I ask if the timing is right, if the sun is done breaking the line of clouds clutching at the edge of the earth. We know where that hope lies by following the light streaming off the soft bends in the grey fields and leaving them blushing pink to release such a fair noble. Where the mask is weak it seems to burn away and let the glow highlight the cracks in that veil. It won’t ever blister and burn away before our eyes, but it might slowly drift apart and let the sun brace itself against the ragged tear of rock jutting up from the water line.

Yellow bands slip past the concrete bars. The short end of the jail extends from the floor to the firmament; the far end rests at our back. The glass embedded in the bars should flash and shimmer, but the light is weak from being scattered and no source strikes the surface with enough force to shine. Reflections usually amplify the effect and send another round bouncing between the barriers. It should be a joy to climb through the beam and warm the heart, but here only the grey is further seeded. The foundations eat up the color, the structure absorbs the light, and the ceiling falls low.

It’s becoming the quiet hour. You wouldn’t know it from the electric noise eating up the space, but there’s less of the language slinking about. All I hear is hums and rumbles, nothing of substance, nothing of consequence. I’m given the time to think about all the moments normally drowned out by a distracting din. It isn’t that shadows seek to flank this place and drive the details out, but rather there’s a dimming that brings new ends into focus. The last shreds of the sun cut across the corners and blind us with their beauty.

-VGB