Answer:
It arrives on a spectrum the size of a DJ’s speakers colors tilting off our scale of vision and splashing up against a brilliant elsewhere. Don’t try to figure it out. Step in too close and I want to run away and be lonely forever. Who knows how it came to be like this. Did you see the meteor showers over the foothills this morning? The dove asleep in the restaurant’s darkened window Sometimes the night is so warm it leaves thermal imprints across my body, glowing like strokes of bright plankton.1 I spread my arms and light drifts out across my whole backyard. I have only ever been held down by light. That’s only half true. I have my sister, a black cat with green eyes, new friends with magical powers. Doctors, teachers, a Russian cosmonaut who hangs from my ceiling, talking about the life force of the moon. Who could argue? No part of my immediate past seems so alive this evening now that I am standing here on the corner by the cafe and the drugstore as black sedans roll down the boulevard as shiny insects drop one by one from an oak so full of tiger colored sun beams it must be remembering dawn.