A vicious penny farthing flashes across the window, as the dreadful coins are placed upon her eyes. The incantations from the holy man’s mouth sound like blaspheme as the sky grows bright outside.
We move across the floor in time to the funeral dirge, we move across time with the conviction of mute ascetic monks. When we stop the shadows affix us to our places; we stop sobbing and silence fills the empty spaces.
As the sun arcs out the top of the window, we remain frozen in place. The shadows grow long in filtered light and we grow as we stand here still.
“The difference between the almost right word and the right word is the difference between the lightning bug and lightning.”
— Mark Twain