a journey

she sits down on that street corner, on a saturday afternoon - no bus is coming, no other children wait. and she slips under the concrete, it melts suddenly below her, giving way into a small dark room. she floats in its exact center, the exact center of this small cube of a room. it is dark red, and black, and blurry, like it is a painting of a room, but smudged. a painting of a room someone never finished, the subjects missing, lost in the mind of the artist, forgotten as he tucked that canvas below some other works in progress, feeling stuck, not sure how to proceed. he leaves the studio frustrated, walks out onto the street, wishes it were a grey day but it is not, the sun is shining and birds are even singing and what can you do when even the weather won't cooperate?

he leaves the city, walking slowly out through parks and suburban yards and right of ways, passing through stands of tress and new developments, eventually finding himself moving uphill, onto a mountain, through fields of blueberries, not yet ripe. he climbs up a tall but not the tallest peak, he builds a house and goes in and locks the door. there are no windows and it is a perfect cube and he sits and he waits for something to happen.