February 2012
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heavy snow is falling outside
and it hasn’t even been touched yet
something is beckoning me out there
at 3 a.m.
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F. Scott Fitzgerald’s Notebooks →
Days of this February were white and magical, the nights were starry and crystalline. The town lay under a cold glory.
Dyed Siberian horse.
As thin as a repeated dream.
The sea was coming up in little intimidating rushes.
The island floated, a boat becalmed, upon the almost perceptible curve of the world.
Lost in the immensity of surfaceless blue sky like air piled on air.
On the great...
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