Early morning rays in a town where no one wakes before 10. Where the streets are still stone cold, but the roofs are toasty and hosty. Climbing up the slim tower to the heat-quelled interior, a smile yanks his face, as the carnival is hours away. The joster jingles his way to the charpai, where sweet slumber reminisce and euphemism permiss in bliss. But wait. That’s not reality.

A gaze has been brooding all night… is it vigor, sorrow or pose? What are you looking at, or better yet for? I later discover my legs under his nose. Is he smelling me into retorque? Along even further analysis, I see another man’s figure beside me. Or is it merely the wrinkles in the fabric, as the wrinkles in time corrode & abrasion foretold with a shudder… the shutters open above me. Am I alone? No THIS man has legs, he can come towards me. But his perception is just sticks. Not a face, no eyes, no expression. What does it mean, two legs lost in time? Or eyes- as they await the glare- to consider the retina and constrict the dilation. In a slant, in a rant, in the fresh morning blindness. In a moment of sublimeness. But I must go… the train waits for none. Not even the edgy-roofed rising sun.

Not Gold, 79 or Cretonne.

[The story, all names, characters, and incidents portrayed in this work are fictitious. No identification with actual persons (living or deceased), places, buildings, and products is intended or should be inferred.]