Somehow, after Pierrot Le Fou

It smells like the comforting mold of a cottage planked in golden wood.

An unforced, brief moment of subtle transcendance.

A sun-room filled with old pillows and furniture, a weathered paperback novel.

An unforced, brief moment of subtle transcendance.

The trees. A presence in the air, melting it into the sun.

An unforced, brief moment of subtle transcendance.

The half-lit kitchen. The real and surreal… Having eyes, and ears, and a mouth.

An unforced, brief moment of subtle transcendance.

Bathed in a warm newspaper. Curling up into sober tales of calm men flapping their arms in front of thirty million people, while bombs go off in the background, and somewhere a man says “Shit,” and fumbles for the fuse.

An unforced, brief moment of subtle transcendance.

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