Wednesday, June 22, 2005

The Best You Can Remember

Beacon remained the small mythical town in which many dreams play themselves out, populated with familiar faces in unfamiliar houses, three-room shanties with hardwood floors underfoot painted odd colors like those you find in eclectic communities.

In one room were three children which were to be watched and doted upon. In the room adjacent were three bound prowlers I had wrestled and subdued, one of whom had transcended into an intruder. He sat clutching a nasty gash from where he punched his arm through a pane of stained glass.

I had been running late for work (what exactly it was I did escapes me--I just felt a sense of duty) and forgot alltogether to close stormshutters to block out the sun. I chose to watch these manacled prowlers grumble and conspire, their desperate ideas of bravado interrupted by the high-and-lonesome whistles of rural saunterers down the road outside my door.

Painting by William Wright/"Claustrophobia" oil on canvas
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