Ink, Dream

It is a yellowed scrap of a letter, a fragile, silent intonation of ink, an ordering of time. Within its sphere, sea shells form beneath the sea, and in a warm tidal pool of amazing clarity, O. Paz and other guests swim. It’s a seaside picnic, and a remembrance. Thrilling yet for its beauty and calm.

Not a day given over to tears, as happens time and time again during this reign of the Impaler, when so many of our people leap in misery onto sharpened stakes, when our orbis terrae is formed entirely of battlements. No, this is the Pentateuch of another day.

Day in which you do not open your hand. Not because you believe the brilliant, soaring, Parnassius Apollo is within. No, you are sure it has slipped your grasp, but you’re still reluctant to open your hand. Reluctant to see your hand empty, and so continue to hold onto the yellowed scrap of an aging dream. A dream that feels like resurrection. O. Paz and the other guests swim gently. The pool is as if cut from the coral. Smooth, ancient and inscribed.