Mornings I place them by the open window close to air and light freshly watered freshly changed. I unfold the sheets and eyes follow
and it’s twilight, the brilliant day having begun its fade to indigo. The water is passive, expectant, more lake than sea. Suppose there’s a
From lull of dank, wet wood and passage, too many bodies pressed together; our clothes bleached and worn thin from sun’s glare and winds
Darkness is only a small part of the problem. Your vision works fine—you’ve tested it in daylight. But now you are underground on dusty