As the sun sets crimson one can detect the inky strand wavering the horizon, the color of blood. so thin but it mesmerizes. It is a lure for the mind to contemplate things that may –or may not — meet us tomorrow.

But perhaps it’s just the heat? Those rays that linger like an ancient phantasm, slung up like homespun fabric within the inner eye. That part of the eye that has seen all violence, all beauty, has seen the palms and backs of every hand that either climbed out of or remained in Africa.

it’s red and watery, that line on the horizon. the liquidity itself is threatening since it is always in nature’s power to change in a the space of a blink. But is this red shadow on the horizon a free and roaming force? Or is it fixed? A permanent aspect to the human’s perspective on “Horizon?” Just homespun fabric, slung up and patterned from the exposure to so much beauty and so much violence.