There's a breath of foul air that greets me as I say goodbye to the one who has many times acted in reality out of the scope or frame of seconds, minutes, hours or other measurements by which I am faintly familiar and frighteningly foreign. Over this present absence I move closer to the distance, dragging my fingertips through the sand of beach-less deserts and cavernous specks. I sway in the stillness, struggle in the ease of broken easels as masterpieces pave my floors and my ceilings are dotted with canvasses that have never known the stroke of a brush nor been weighed down by the burden of tarnished thought. Such. Is. Light.
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