His present is the same color as his past—gray; rain filled, memory’s wilderness a seepage.
Roses above and below—soaked, shattered, but more brightly colored. He falls through the
rose window and into another time he believes is in the past but persists always in the
moment: mercury from a broken thermometer skitters in planetary pellets. It’s a long way
down, the past transmutes to ocher. He is tweening from point A to point B: only the
ground grows closer in those few seconds, stretched out, elastic. The falling debris
reflected in his eyes flutters like an intimate note torn in pieces and dropped out the
window. When he wakes color will have returned to the world, but his memory will liquefy
to mizzle. Just walk into a dark room with a candle to see what I mean.