Yellow Sweater

They were filthy with implication, the ratty edges of their meaning frayed and dangling. 
 

I was dancing with the bugs. In the sun where all things dance. In the moonlight when we, the small things, can feel the throbbing rhythm of darkness. I wasn't alive; I was dancing. Then I woke up. I had a face. My wings were beautiful.

The city smelled like sunlight; that odd airy mix of dust and nothing else. It was hot. The cement made it hotter. Buildings lined the street. Their baroque facades rose above the carefully trimmed trees.

I was discussing Christianity with my mother. I am not a Christian. She is a libral one.

Today the salty breeze sweeps through my window from the west. It’s bitter and sharp. The walls of my room are white painted daub. There is a small bed in the corner covered in a beautiful tapestry woven in deep greens, blues, and reds.

There are curves in calculus. Lots of curves. You have to calculate infinity multiple times. It is a bit redundant. Complicated things are often variations of the same thing. I dropped calculus.