The Death of a Convict and the Birth of a Young Woman

Morning possessed no reason for him a continuous blinking ghostline a chain of fiery now and cooling then-stars. Against a post he stood waiting for what had followed his earthly body from inside dreams visions gestures and Failure's longing perfumed perfection and out into awakening above alarms calling and the setting sun. He wasn't waiting for himself nor was he being himself; all in all he'd put himself someplace intentionally without mood or effects. What had no middle mattered only if it ended and Grey could give nothing that Color didn't first consume as a canvas to exist on. Perhaps the day had sit down as a boy might; him with his satchels of spices coffee and oregano. His remembrance of appetite seemed to look back and turn to pepper in his mouth. He couldn't understand that he was eating sunlight: seeing darted through a mile's felling of tall book-like pieces and birdbaths seen set in-between and bent away from his journey's rumbling...