Everything is bathed in turquoise. It’s like I’m drowning in an exclusive membership-only pool, and, well, hell, I’ve lost all my borrowed ID. So this may be an awkward passing.

I won’t tell you about the profoundness of the morning sunlight, since it’s been written unto death: its depth and its shadings, its horizontalness, and, well… (slow down, take a breath)… its godliness. Oh, and the way the light bleeds into the leaves in the parking lot, dappling all those Nissans and Pontiacs and F-150’s, and blah and blah and blah.

But oh my lord, my room was beautiful for a moment. Please, by all means, try and picture it: this standard oh-hell motel, straight up and down, stripped clean of its artificiality, its discount coupon barfedness, its insolent stink. For a moment, this room became a pure thing. And then an empurpled cloud rolled overhead and ruined the entire thing: the cracks in the walls became darker, the stains on the carpet became more stained, the spiderwebbed bugs became more worrisome.

In the turquoise light, I was something beautiful, I think. And then the room turned into a plain dirty blue, and I turned back into who I really was.


10 thoughts on “Turquoise

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