what about the horse? things slip by
me in the periphery. the rods and cones
ache for some sort of stimulus, a burst of
color, some delineation to mark a change;
some disturbance in the monotony beyond
what is; isn't. they burn holes in the
retina desiring a change, but the motion
of time flying by isn't enough to
activate their strained desires.
No comments:
Post a Comment