The beads of brown and wood danced at the edge mirroring the circles below and the light above. I couldn't help but be trapped in its shadow. I wanted to touch the pen and feel its gentle weight in my hand. How similar was it to this Pilot? What was the quality of its ink? There was even a crumpled, discarded blankness on which to compose the potential storied landscape.
The post card waves goodbye and farewell, and I do hope it does fare well. I am doubting that the tipped shot glass rocking a tune of movement on the otherwise still table is musical. I think it has more to do with a beckoning to touch. Yet instructions compel constraint and restraint. It is an exercise my dear reader. We have ten minutes.
You too are here with me. Can you see the scene only a few feet away? All of the shadows cast long and deep. It is a prayer bracelet that has lost its elastic, and a hilled city lined with California colored homes.
There you are. I can see you staring out of the ship departing. You want your farewell recalled as an epic voyage. You are fleeing this table as I sit here transcribing your Bon Voyage.
My time is done, and so too have you departed.
Wednesday, October 6, 2010
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