A gray haze rolls over the wings of the floating tin can. The people inside don’t exist. They are suspended in a temporary state of freedom. Down below there are laws. There are rules and limitations. But whatever happens in this speeding tin cylinder cannot be stopped until the ocean stretches out far into the dimming light.
But now, lost souls hang non-existent over a sea of gray cloud. Tin cans fly in the distance.
Summer 2011
I began the summer with this piece. I find this piece, which I wrote on the plane to Menton this summer, a fitting way to close. Here's to another wonderful summer.
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