you are standing in a studio in front of a painting with your head cocked to one side chewing on your lip hands folded at your chest mind racing with the running and skipping brush strokes pulling you from one corner of a canvas planet to the farthest point at the edge of the acrylic where you and i stand at the endless ocean of white walls recessed suns illuminating great plateaus rising like revolutions from the deep and the bristles of God delineate my hand from yours with a dark line a moment becoming permanent as the air flutters past removing our mortality as it goes and you look at your watch and you unfold your arms and move to the next piece where i am waiting ready to hold you again.