A story, as it yawns, wants to unfold; it begins from nowhere, it is nowhere that I am trying recall, filling the void as it leads into a movement, the void as a thing, has other things inside it; persons that pass through, cars, trees, soil, a bicycle, the weather even. There is a building behind the flatness and before that, a flatter blue, the sky without dimension, people passing in front of it, sunglasses and car windows. A woman in yellow walks across, affecting other movements, she is not the center, she is the center; branches hit the wind like nerve endings, she is a function of molecular movement, that is one way of saying it, a white van moves to cover the lack of seeing or believing it. Someone takes a picture of the moment that depends on another image. Somewhere outside the frame, it develops and preserves a lack of belief, not effecting what happens in the void and produces the same white van. A truck passes to negate this, a girl walks indifferent to either one; she is in the image, reacts with a digital camera and doesn’t mind at all.
It wants to develop. So two people walk in with a bag of food. They have stepped further into an open page, full of things still there, or ones that have gone. A sign that reads “fire parking lane no parking anytime.” They can’t be seen, nor can the fire anytime, edges begin to burn; they have set the page on fire. The one on the bicycle rides to the bottom right, out toward the street. Its safe there, where the story does not touch, where stores open and close to decorate spaces and those who go in and out.
An angel walks past, or rather, a man with white wings, flannel shirt and cargo pants. He might as well be the real thing; the story could use one. He passes quickly enough to be a figure of speech. There is no use for him unless he saves a part of the story or promises that the sky still matters; the blue pulls into a lighter degree, stays there and doesn’t give room to wrestle. An angel possessed a man to wear wings, this is where it begins.
