The light followed the shadows and found reflection in the flagstones, the windows, the darkness. The books sketched their own direction. Blue. The trees.

Blue. The ideal, said the old dog, is a mumbling idiot at dawn. Blue. The mad sky. I found a line somewhere under my bookcase. Blue. In the night we write new books, and for every time we breathe in, others breathe out. The air and the songs of the Earth. Blue. Blue. Blue.

Blue. Blue. Blue. Blue. Blue. Blue.