january in jersey is painted with globs of oils all icicles and sharp edges and unmixed colors -- the view from my window when i lean out to breathe smoke through my oscillating fan is starker than greek statues (we know now to be garishly painted) and every fractal dropping on my sloping roof provokes me to paranoid thoughts of the matrix and how close to death these dissolving shapes spun me, sledding in my car, into a ditch off the highway
next week i bid goodbye to the atlantic and chase watercolor scenery and exhaustively organized color pallets and every breath that manifests in front of me reminds me to leave.