Solitary company living at an arms-length reach.

Keeping watch on the sunset beads, tricking out the minute creep of another evening's horizon (line). The landscape swifts by me, shifting shape and color before our uniformity. Sketch of darkness still unremembered by the lake-front shores beneath Scott's Bookstore, not bound for our Seattle. No underground cities here, no. No mystery save that of a fallen night's moonless sky, shining of its own accord.

Faretheewell folk,
-Talthea (3/31/10)