Stucko

In the stucco there were indentions and there were mountains, the indentions a sandy brown, the mountains a red, like Indian paintbrushes. I wanted to follow the awning’s arches, from balcony down to the point in the air where they hung free. I wanted to slide down them and hang on the edge of the air.

The other planes we get to divide all the time, we get to cross over from one to the next, and we are free among them. But of the horizontal planes (thinking as the illusion goes for us, thinking of a flat earth), we reside most our days on only one. We are feet creatures. Pushed into the dirt, feet first, glued to the plane beneath us. Maybe that’s the thrill of getting up on another level and looking down.

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