There are three ways to enter a room without being noticed. It is not necessary to explain them, nor can I validate that there are only three, but there are at least three.
If you walk outside on a day when the grayness of the sky is roughly equivalent to the weight of your open palm, cupping a walnut, it is likely that you are having thoughts of earthworms and cannot speak more than a few clipped words without exhaling deeply through your nose.
In the street there are days that last forever because they are wrapped in the liquid feel of time like I am wrapped in skin. You can wade through it, freeze it, dig gullies to usher it into a different valley where the crops have grown pinched with drought.
Blue was invented by a Jewish man who made papers in the 18th century. In an attempt to understand the complexity of his wife, he pulled the sky down around him and presented it to her on the occasion of their marriage.
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