If you look at the tops of the domiciles it almost looks like summer, the sky is a crisp cerulean and the sun is effulgent, for a second I can consign myself to oblivion that we are barely into winter at all, for a moment I can disregard that this is just the beginning of the next three months of caliginosity.
Near the origination of things we can find what we’ve obscured, somewhere underneath last autumn’s leaves there is a diaphanous layer of gold promising something revived, something we thought was gone permanently.
There is a cinder block wall near the fringe of town, we call it the first wall, not because it happened before everything else, but because that is where everything happened first. Kisses, drinks, smoked cigarettes.
On the other side of this palisade there is a marble town, empty integuments of people we used to cherish lie beneath the earth in infinite torpidity.
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