March 10, 2009
work in progress, 15
To see his face, he thinks, is to see the light that passes through the weave of his hat. This, achieved by looking at a shard of glass painted silver. His teeth are grayed with paint between his gums. A memory of sounds and arguments, the space of living, suddenly trapped in this small room. It is disturbing, this thought of this, his face the memory of a bird outside is perched somewhere in foliage and, though he can not see it, makes a sound that he might hear where it could be.
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