The image is of a table by a windowsill on a summer's early evening. The yellow glow of the setting sun paints a beveled texture of light and shadow. Sitting alone on the tables rounded edge is a lone book; it’s binding worn thin, open to some unspecific page. The air of the summer’s evening has grown listless, restless and has begun to stir about quietly. As the light slowly fades, the listless air dances and flirts with the pages of the open book. The book, unresponsive at first, begins converting the restless energy of the evening’s air. In shadowed yellow a page begins to ruffle and rise. The motion is a struggle as it falls back down and rises again. Words and sentences bend and curl with the hesitant page and with a frustrated gust the page is blown over, and several others quickly follow. New words and sentences reveal themselves, and are again blown. The book now is alive, with syncopated flipping. It all rushes together at times, individually at others, all in the dimming yellowness of the slanting lights gaze.
And that is my drifting thought in the cab as it makes its way across town and then down. Streets flip by slowly, individually, and then suddenly together. And moments of my previous days are revealed to me. The streets blow by and pages bunch together, and then a vivid moment glows through the opaque. And as we approach our downtown destination, the pages flip less quickly, the memories more slowly, and the yellow light becomes hidden by the horizon.