Thousand: Two Hundred Eight

walk, the youth knowing where they are going. Fields of grass, a red grass, not red all the way through, not like they’ve been splashed with paint left over from the candy store or even a barn, but a rough grass that scratches against Samuel’s pant legs, a species of grass that’s got a hint of red in its green, like a presentiment of something unexpected that becomes banal before one has taken ten steps. And the air, too, has taken on a gold, which begins to accept its own red, a sunset combination, isn’t it? The young man’s naked