Rust

Some days, the red of the earth and the piercing arrow of sunlight can turn the mind in directions it felt afraid to run in, imprisoned as it was by doors and clocks and pressure cooker whistles. Here, the questions float in and out, the answers refuse to come, but what joy there is in sinking into the cool fluid bed of not knowing. It is the absence of person that is the magic. To think all it took was breeze from a window, and the thrill of indecisive rain clouds to stretch time, to make time seem irrelevant to a moment.