A LA POURSUITE DES ILLUSIONS, 1962. Oil on canvas.
are still here, but the sepulchre
is empty. A messenger
from the tomb tells us
how a stone has been rolled
from the mind, and a tree lightens
the darkness with its blossom.
There are travellers upon the road
who have heard music blown
from a bare bough, and a child
tells us how the accident
of last year, a machine stranded
beside the way for lack
of petrol, is crowned with flowers.
R. S. Thomas
One. Death is a bottomless pool of clear water.
Two. Wind is a question mark.
Three. Morality is a thermos.
Four. Love is an over-full shopping bag with a broken handle.
Five. Fear is a cinderblock tower with a single door and no windows.
—Episode 148 "The Broadcaster",
Welcome to Night Vale
On the water's surface
Today in Hunterdon County
The day is young
Traffic light goes red
Green. Red. Green. Red.
The warm belly of the bus
The sun strikes
Feeling good in New Jersey
Leaves on the windshield
Thoughts of home
High up in the trees
Water like glass
A vacant lot
In the darkness defined by her light i see the silhouette of another woman.
Her skin as black as the darkness between stars.
The recent moon is her hairpiece.
She is distant, inscrutable, and cold.
But only for a time.
Is this how seasons work?
The bright woman looks at me.