Thursday, November 04, 2004

Just like every (and any) other morning

Just like the previous day, just like every (and any) other morning, the sun rises at dawn following the evening of complete darkness. And some wonder where the street lights have gone, and some know but won't divulge, and others are content to go along following from the ground as the lights fly like birds in search of warmer air. But the night is brutal. The chill unforgiving. The darkness a cold sheet. There is no light on my street. Not once the sun goes down.

One dark-colored afternoon I met a man who carried a bag of verse. There were loose sheets, leafs of notebook paper bound together, and even the occasional napkin, scribbled upon, whose once discarded existence was now reborn, reformed, unburied and unmarried to form. And I think of him now because he was something of a seer and in his prophet ways he told me that it'd come to this. His sentences bled into each other and his eyes had the very tint of the night before last; the final seconds of light at night when, like perched birds, the lights hung seemingly in the air. And I saw this in his eyes. I saw it before he uttered a word. He foretold it with his eyes. You just had to know where to look.

The obvious isn't always in what's said. You can know the universe without understanding how you know it.

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