After a Taoist proverb
For the blind man, there is no night, only a break in time, a scaling back of the noise around him, a hand pulling the sounds around him as he does a blanket as it begins to grow colder.
Ask him to describe the sun, and he says it is a fire holding conversation with everyone.
The moon is him alone with his heart.
Childhood
Only at night had he been able to imagine love. On the floor, tucked into a sleeping bag, warm and free of any sense of how big and clumsy he would become, snug and simple as a seed at the core of a fruit, pocketed away in the mouth of everything he could be capable of, he turned over on himself until he fell against the stars.
