At night, the walk between the house and my studio entails an arm outstretched, waving for spider webs, for shrubs I have misplaced, for a door handle and its key. In those ten meters of cautious and mild wonder, loose thoughts escape me like water in a shallow tray. Out of a need to believe that I am not inhaling spiders face-to-face, I at times ponder toward the sky. Lifting my feet knee high, high above the grass my wife surrendered to me; allowing it finally to be a thickened brush.
In these short moments, between regular human life and an altogether bizarre affair, my sky-fixed eyes curse the closeness of the neighbors and their fences, their trees, their yards, their sounds. The closeness of all their impeding darkness. Towering without wonder, high above the horizon I desire, that if it could would send pulsing, faint word of all distance and light.