I lost track of people the way you lose track of your emotions, drunk at 3 a.m. And those same people lost track of me. Life was a slow fade. Eventually I wasn’t in the frame anymore. Entire segments of sound erased themselves. There was an empty middle section. And the pictures, my pictures, wound through the street and into the runoff drain. The light skittered around, went orange and blinked into fractiousness. No one was witness. Who wanted to see something like that?
Then, the frame widened. And I ran into a friend from the briefest engagement. She had foundered under the same drop cloth. And she said, this is Ecuador. This is the electric line. This is a horse. This a market. This is a dog escaping across the blue nightfall. But this is also a corral to stick your head inside and drain the dull contention. This is a place where you can replace the bad with neon ardor. And that was better than comparing bookshelves and music connections because it meant there was much much more to this than being cool.
Light Leah Grace O’Brien
Words Hank Cherry