Blue

You must be a long time ago.

So strange, isn’t it, that they give the same words to things that mean so differently, to colours that contrast, but cannot conjoin. Because the sky isn’t the same at midnight as it is at midday, because silky is a texture that is not the same as sapphire. How can midnight be the same as midday?

Did they run out of words, you think, just like we once ran out of stories and voices, just like the grains in some glass desert? Did they run out, or run down, finally weary of finding more ways to sing of the sky unravelling to the sun’s arcing glare across the firmament? How can midnight be the same as midday?

So strange it is: that we give the same words to things that mean so differently, to lives that contrast, but cannot conjoin. Because we aren’t the same on Tuesdays as we are on Thursdays, because biograph is not the same as stratigraph, although both lie buried in the past; one flesh, one flash. How can midnight be the same as midday?

This must be a long time ago.

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