\\Portrait of the Dark//
Think of this as a forbidden painting, hidden away.
Think of this as something that makes its way through your head like California tumble-weed.
Think of this as dream fabric.
If you look up into the expanse at 11:57, you will see darkness.
If you look harder, you will see an airliner scratch its way through the stratosphere.
If you look closely, you will see the light.
His sleeve grazes the Chinese Wisteria on the wall. He turns up his collar — walks on among the smells of gasoline and alleyway arguments.
Nicotine embroiders his cuticles, and reminds him of desires. Watch the biological film that’s on his eyes. And the celluloid film it projects — rectangular buildings, the straight, paved road, the round domes above archways. Look, as his perturbed irises flit across the way: up to the heavens. This man, he does not understand the night. The white dove, caged in between his organs, shakes with every stride. He stops. The dove jerks back. He never once anticipated this. He begins to toy with the goatskin glove in his pocket. Now, see the Bengal tiger prowling the hand-made street.
It opens its maw to speak: LIBERTY, EQUALITY, FRATERNITY, OR DEATH.
The dove inside him goes still.