Cresting each new slithering ridge merely seeks a scalable vastness, as its floor & ceiling match wits to play at their maddening equilibrium. Indeed, even the loose, windswept sands- which are everywhere strewn heavenwards in glittering dissolve- begin to blur the division between the rising dunes & the descending sky. The Lord Sun’s reign suffers no such division.
“Fog in November, trees have no heads,
Streams only sound, walls suddenly stop
Half-way up hills, the ghost of a man spreads
Dung on dead fields for next year’s crop.
I cannot see my hand before my face,
My body does not seem to be my own,
The world becomes a far-off, foreign place,
People are strangers, houses silent, unknown.”
- Leonard Clark, Fog in November
via ghoulnextdoor
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