The sun is over

The sun is over the end of a street now where it is blocked off from the sand and ocean. I dont think Sepulveda hits the ocean. It goes on forever. I should live somewhere that a wave can just jostle me home to. I should make a day to find the end of Sepulveda. I want it to start and end distinctly. I want to see it in the dark so the beige hills that crush the valleys and trump the horizon are lightless and black. They make me shake. The tail of the ridge just out and seals the beach to the north. It is an heavier shade of white from the sky with a thin silver corona. I recall facing the hills from a street and knowing that the sun was behind them, snatched from the southern sky, and that it would rifle new dust afternoon rays into the bathroom windows when I was home. I stayed all night at my desk. That morning the sky was green. During the night the hills had fallen away and loosed the smog and sun and the morning sky was alive and I stood absently in it for a moment before going back to my desk. During the day, in there, the sun didnt move, there were not shadows. My actions didnt change or progress. When my hands started moving over the desk, feeling the corners of folded paper in between my fingertips, they didnt stop, the paper didnt stop, the fluorescent lights in the ceiling, in the metal lamp over the desk and all of the other empty desks light the room into a shadowless gas and that was it. It was eternal and momentary. I had only to move one envelope and I had moved and placed all of them for the entire day, for a lifetime. It wasnt a matter of how long it happened, whether it was each day, only that it had happened. I believe that one moment is different from the next. I wasnt there. I was at the beach.



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