Ocular Appreciation

A blink. Days have passed. Cherry blossoms fell in festival last week, perhaps the week before. A blink. Yellow light in the air draws my attention in diagonal, opposite angles of the setting sun. Opposite angels, the city of which I call home. My home calls me. Between blinks of realization and slivers of sound, consciousness reminds me that wholeness and completeness are only conglomerations of fragmentation. The spectrum is white light shattered. A blink and light is gone. Black is not a color, but the absence of. A blink because my eyes are dry, even in the darkness.