I Have Returned for a Night to Andalou

I’m back from the long night, where the frames ran like an old film reel- antiquated and magic in strange technicolor grain, fading, and then all at once becoming real again.

It’s as if the light that came to my eyes was rain flying with varying strength, stopping for breath every few moments. All the while, the ocean emptied its cool salt waters upon the shale of my rooftop.

Can you feel that midsummer wandering? Time speeding and slowing, the sails open and take in the wind while we silently tag along, like children holding their parent’s hand.

I can feel the dirt and the wet grass underfoot, ever-constant before it turns to pavement, then to kitchen floorboards.

So here we wander, like children again, returned to our old state, as old states and old souls in the ’60s- feeling what it was like to live without such noble and modern fear. The car bomb and the kalashnikov cut through your eye, and in the middle of a gathering crowd, someone’s hand lies on a street in Paris.

There’s something garish to our glowing odyssey, like fireworks set off from a golf course. Back yards in July are foreign lands for a night.

Only pilgrims traverse the empty streets now, watching explosions in the empty sky, staggering with a grin.


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