We sat silent, not yet tired of being ourselves, each holding the end of a yarn the length of life and counting mingled mingling threads woven by warp and woof with living flowers. Petals floated in the air, turning slowly as they fell, each coloured by our circumstances.
Marveling at strange discoveries, we became the prey of restless foolish impulses–responsive curves magnetically drawing hands, a sweet crystalline cry breaking the silence, then sleeping, waking, eating, all in the span of a single moonless spring night.
At dawn, behind the blind whiteness of the sun, we faded into innocence again.
This entry is part of Jack Rusher’s archive, originally published January 8th, 2013, in San Francisco.