Sharon's hair (admit it. you don't know her name. sharon was your babysitter.) gleams like burnished bronze as she sits in a stream of March's best light. The scene inside the café reminds you of the time you stood nose to canvas with Bierstadt's California Spring (the interplay of sun and shade always has a sinister twinge, you feel.) Windows offer distorted views of sidewalks and shoes (no golden beam can save this city.) Sharon (not sharon) scratches her scalp just above the left ear and that totally alters your opinion of her.
Rlargusa: He lived louder than love.
Posted by: |