Oceans dance in the pink and orange lightness of morning. Multi-toned wonders rise and recede with the horizon and tired eyes; if you're not cautious, you'll miss everything. Somewhere above the constances and endingness of what eludes Stardust and streetlamps, a woman obsessed with paintings watches the waves and motions in ways that only maybe a dream would find beautiful, sad but beautiful. And for as long as she could remember that sadness was like a core imperative to her being and her art the way twirling is an imperative for galaxies. Often, the frequencies of colors and memories would watch her on the shore and hum quietly at a distance, the way her mother hummed in her childhood. And always the bus rides home from the beach felt something like a final meditation, everything felt okay in the world, at least for one more day. She would smile softly in her seat and watch as suddenly how winter rains fell over a pirouetting California.
12:18am
3/1/2018
