Meditations In the Window of the Pale Solarium
1. In the dream pouting shades were ferried to their end on blue boats decked with languid dahlias staring through darkness toward the sunlit edge having fallen from the forms they inhabited . . . 2. The white book on the sill could be a history of tenderness, and the promises we make when we are too full of love a description of Tristanís honeyed gaze, the sighs of Heloise, Opheliaís tears their pale breaths rising against a range of beige hills, in the blue tunnel to the sun above Budapestís white shades . ** Out the window there was a mountain of blue leaves the depth of a landscape is the depth of desire he was a deathís head propped against an interminable choir untouched by absence as by sorrow eighth notes pouring blue from her mouth and its parables ** Inside her pain was a tiny fountain angels pared down to a glossy blue . . .water poured from nothing and then returned. But hers was a beauty that could not be moved. A stillness, an emulsion with a face of solace in parentheses. ** The world is a semblance where we float in the air little gusts of distraction that dine in rouge Where the days are numerous and beauty unmoored the horses, Cadillacs and chandeliers, suspended from a ceiling of unintended blue ** Death is to thought as winter to water as a blue piano to the sighs that make an atmosphere If there is a case for joy it cannot be structured it is a habitat an aviary a land of csokalade and sunlit birds ** The breath of memory must always unshape itself to finally ask for nothing at all or that which animates a sky of animals too slow too pale to do anything but crawl across the ecliptic where the sun beats down every mote of desire that can be beaten down.
— David Hickman