the bed is at the corner, and where it looks out into the grove there is a peach tree growing by the window. not low enough that you can climb up into the branches from where you lay in the blankets; no, you have to reach high for your fingers to brush a fruit, soft and pink in eternal italian sunshine. sometimes when you pull it off some peach juice spills onto the earth below, and maybe it becomes sticky and languid in the heat that afternoon.
the desk is placed in such a way that in the afternoon, light spills into it in golden pools and your sketches and transcriptions turn into faded prophecies that already seem centuries old - and when you finally set them aside there is a bitterness and beauty worn into the paper. maybe the sun is different here, or maybe it is just a condition of writing as you think.
sometimes, you stay outside until it is dark - and even then, it never really gets dark, just blue and impressionist around the edges of your vision like a van gogh painting. some birds still sing, and the stream still hums softly under the rustling leaves and moonlight that never seems to look real - for it is far too soft.
this feels like the land of the eternal sunrise - never truly day or night, always existing in a limbo that echoes in your bones. there is no black or white here - everything is transcendental, ethereal, beyond extremes or meaning of any kind. even the cobblestones in the plaza, the ancient cathedral - it all echoes a sense of liminal space. always returning, circling, moving in the in-betweens of peach trees and hastily written poetry.
anha told me to write more vignettes - especially when i get to europe. i haven't gotten there yet but i figure i should practice a little.