An auburn tree makes a sound in the breeze, its crackling
leaves like fragments of glass. What does it mean to be in limbo, and does this
term apply to phantom dreams. A thousand leaves rustle together, two shards of
glass chime together.
There is something mathematical about making headway up a
tree, breaking spaces. The mess of branches down below, the mess of glass that
magnifies, that cuts.
There is something methodical about running wild. The sound
of a guitar set in a corner, the sound of breaking beats set with the sun.
The stark contrast of red against fading leaves.
