They drip like shadows of light, orange and red, a long way down like running spills of oil on the water. After the dark, so early in arrival now that I almost don’t notice the sunset, comes the water-colour rippling in the dark ink of the canal. Not exclusively though. The asphalt, dark and slick yet illuminating the bleeding mascara off its recently washed/not yet dried face, takes the monopoly out of the sky and crashes the board in to an extra dimension: under our feet to join the sides, eye-level, and up high.
niebieskiheron 0 Minutes
Published by niebieskiheron
Striving to write. View all posts by niebieskiheron