little rectangle

another odd frame. see the nestling of the bending boughs against the wet concrete; the shifting, obscure dancing of eels in the vapor; the alien lights glimmering across a desert of gentle fog!

she bristled, and from between her teeth a thin stream of fog blew up into the air. her fingers crept inside her coat. this was another of her favorite moments, the kind heralded by a wash of some strange alertness, some tingling upon the skin — they could never be found easily, but were chanced upon easily enough, like a wary animal longing for touch. moments when vast distances embraced and fell flat, when even the stars swooned into reach and she could feel the edges of her awareness like a familiar room — shivering, naked moments in which delicate detail swelled in waves toward the vision, barely-tasted before it faded beneath the force of that immense sensation, and together formed a glassy cathedral.

the bright display fogged; close against it, he held his breath, although he felt faint, faint like only the hungry feel; in that little rectangle, every small movement registered moments late, as though somewhere far off. with a slow cascade of clicks, he adjusted his camera's focus until a soft blur drowned the picture, until those snowladen boughs swam and distant lights dissolved; then, as the camera shutter punched a hole through the air, and that unknown cathedral came raining down in thousands of brilliant shards, clutching its thin, wriggling heart between his fingers, he fled.