What was it? Imitation, dialogue, mockery — what?

That men of old would have imagined what is before us, these contemporary aspirations.

What could it mean? Is it a message — "No ladder"?

But a week old, the hillside forest in the picture isn't the one off to the east.

Red — the black maples always go red.

Last night, at the house in which I grew up, the bedroom that was mine accepted me only as a stranger. It has been partially claimed by my mother and father, dozens of minor items lying about where I left them nearly five years ago.

I spent a few minutes looking at two paintings that haven't gotten two thoughts since. And then I peeked in the closet, to find more oils on canvas; some I knew would be there, more I had forgotten. None of them is younger than eight years.

Six works returned home with me.

Some make it their business to put the oddest tools to quotidian work, and we call it design.

A strange time, fall. Not only are clouds more frequent but overcast skies, too, fit the occasion, leaves' aureate and cinnamon crowned best with purplish-grey.

The day is missed when the ceiling, having hung low, breaks just after five o'clock in the evening. But then — at least it showed a bit.