The Artist
#74
Pen and paper kiss eloquently in the fading light. Red and gold leap between the clouds, flirting with stone and concrete and rippling water as the earth diligently spins on its axis, heedless to the pair of eyes straining to soak in every beam and detail of light. A careless precision, at once angry and eager and desperate, possesses the muscles and sinews of the prematurely worn fingers of the man who stands on the old bridge, shivering in the autumn breeze. Etchings and lines become form, conversing in inked dialogue, a silent summons to notice the glorious tragedy of the instance the fleeting sun slips away into slumber.