The light bouncing from the reservoir was so bright it laid bare the floaters in my eyes. This capture reminds me of getting a Bontempi organ for Christmas when I was child with a failed Dorothy Hamill haircut. On that organ, I picked out the melody to the alien signal from Close Encounters of the Third Kind. It was rare escape from my usual tone deafness.
Like fading to a dream in an old film, wherein the heroine relives the day she stopped caring about her rivals . . . and in this resignation, she saw that the only rival who mattered was herself.
This chair disappeared about an hour later, to the sound of a muffler scraping the road.
I like how water meters and manholes get laminated with asphalt and weeds.