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Passing through a little town, and it's fall. New England (dum-a-dum-a-dum dum a dum day) is more beautiful than i ever remember.

It's the trees. Not the town. It's the trees, in that gestalt shift, where you see the forest that interweaves with a town. It's not just that the buildings are old brick and full of sweet industry or the children playing on the wooden playground, or the sheer tinyness of the town. Those manmade things are swimming in the the colors of these still-full walls and washes of leaf.

Sky's nostalgia-blue.

I don't know if i know this place.

I know something. Vibrancy. I know i've been lying. You don't want to find out, after making yourself believe in beauty, that it wasn't. I find i'm crying. Yellow. Oh my. I didn't know what yellow meant before.

I think a monk who came before me finally held within himself each leaf here, in its distinctness, trembling. A containment that was opening out, simultanaeity, millions of bits of brightness and their edges so clear, and in that moment he - disappeared. Leaving behind his robe, an aspen, trembling in light.

I've been saying that where i am is just as good. But here i am and it's all so Red and colored like Fire and buttercups and polished toast. I've been saying i never get homesick. If i ever had flying dreams, this might be one. But i don't. I don't have them. To whom am i lying?

It is the sun shining from inside the skins of the most unblemished fruit. Cerises. Plums. A tender membrane, holding such sweetness. Or it is the life-colored gel we see our shadow-bones suspended in when holding a hand over bright light?

I can't live at home in this world anymore

Fields of poppies - no, tremendous highway flares; ones i could dive into and they would buoy me up, cool and light. If i were not leaking a sadness. I am outside of this town.

All of the colors are solid. They are positive and are as only things that exist without selfconsciousness could be. The variegation is only a trick of the light. Have i ever cried in a dream before? I didn't want to lie. Only to be brave.


Awake, and walking in the morning. A properly grey sky. There are leaves lined like fracture patterns i expect to crumble into ash. And then, amidst lozenge-shaped leaves, red and orange on the grey sidewalk, rain just about to drop, two red buttons.

Guess that this must be the place.

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