Thousand: Seven Hundred Sixty-One

the world was made around. The title of the piece is a number. Each day latches onto another and is carried away by the momentum of them all. Light walks down a deserted beach, touching the wood along the tide line. Every grain of sand has a promise attached. The raindrops bear the signatures of the artists who craft them. A spark slaved away a thousand years to be borne on an updraft where the hunter in the woods, slapping his cold hands before the fire, sees it whirl with its brethren into the air. Which worm wasn't woven by