Silence is all I hear in the dark room. There is nothing to see or hear, there is only the warming cold that signals the rise of the early sun. There are several thoughts going through my mind right now.

Thenightisbothincrediblyfiniteandyetincrediblyoldthereisnotellingwhatmysteriousarehiddeninitsinfiniteexpanseandwhenitsaroundyoutheworldisacolddeadplaceandyetjustwhenyouthinkthereisnothingleftforyoutohopeforitsgoneandthesunisupandyouhavetotryandmakeitthroughthedayknowingthenightisjustaroundthecorner.

The sun stretches into view over the horizon. The long arms of its rays reach towards my window and extend their warmth into the room. There is an unusual stillness to the world right now; it will soon be broken by the sound of chirping birds. But for now they remain hidden and silent, the messengers that another day has come.

The field of my youth is filled with brown, dying grass. The ground is hot and hard, the victim of a rainless summer. Time moved so slowly, the day was filled with endless play and no consequences.

The field was bright and beautiful, it seemed vast and unobtainable on television, but here it is sharply defined and brightly lit, like a movie set—designed to be so aesthetically pleasing.

The river Thames runs through the middle of the field, it is bright and glowing, a shining life source.  Animals have gathered around it, drinking.

Two areas. The mass and the room with the piano only defined the church. I never visited any other areas of it.

A bust with two heads sat in the hall. It was made of hard rock, one head on top of the other but still connected. Their faces were contorted into expressions of great pain, always gazing towards opposite horizons.

The sun stretched in that room too, gently illuminating each key on the long piano in the center.

It reflects off the river below, their eyes meet and hold a glance, then the sun moves on.

Trees stretch out towards the sky, their gnarly hands cupping the moon as it rains down silver light upon them. No matter how high they reach they will never get to the moon, eventually tumbling down to earth like Jacob off his ladder.

A boat runs through the river, navigating the narrow water with expert ease.

A fish gasps for air on the deck of the ship, flopping towards the edge, trying to fling itself back into the water. There is a lot of debate over whether or not fish feel pain, even if they don’t does it make a difference? Is there a ethical boundary for how to treat living things?

Outside the sun looks blue, its gaze just starting to warm the grass and awaken the birds. A Japanese family is sitting down to watch a late–night program, the children and parents smiling as they flip on their television. They have worked hard all day, the children have studied hard, and now they have a few hours to watch their program before going to bed.

Time is slipping, soon the sun will be high in the air and everyone will be doing his or her day’s work. I know so little about the sun and yet I listen to whatever it says. I wake up on its schedule and go to bed once it leaves; I always listen to what the sun tells me to do. Except for today, of course, and the sun will punish by making me tired and lethargic.

The duck scuttles back and forth across the frame of the patio door, my dad a few feet behind it. The duck arrived in our backyard without any reason and sat back there for several minutes. Now my dad chases the duck, trying to catch it so it can be released back into the wild. The duck does not fly, but runs very fast. Perhaps it enjoys the chase, but does want to be caught. The danger of being caught is fun to the duck.

A little black bird with orange shoulders flutters over our car.  The bird’s shoulders look like he flew too close to the sky and now spots of orange and yellow were burned there, a permanent reminder of the ceiling he can fly towards.

The bird tears off towards the woods. I think about where it is going.

HisfeathersandwingsstretchoverthehorizonatanimpossiblylonglengthforsomereasonheseemslikeanominousignthoughIknowIwillseehimlaterandIdo.

Rain clutters over half of the Subway roof, the other half remains entirely dry and sunny. We go outside briefly and revel in the strange sight, strangely uplifted by the bizarre occurrence.

Snow falls in great bunches onto the ground. It is very late at night; we are all standing in a movie theater parking lot at 1:00 in the morning, kicking the ground and musing on our own immortality. Now we know how defined our lives are, and how tragically short they might be, butthatnightinthesnowweareimmortalandyoungandreadytotakeontheworldandcarveourselvesaplaceinit.

We drive that night, drive to our youth and our future, drive to all the things we have ahead, all the things we left behind and all the nothing we have now. There is no road up ahead.

That night I lay on the couch for hours thinking about what may come, the cold chills my toes. All I see is a river crashing through the wall.

Two years we are waving goodbye, friends leaving open house.

A cat is in the tree with a dog prowling beneath it, preventing it from coming down. My brothers and I work to bring the cat down while simultaneously keeping the dog away, it takes many minutes but we finally do, then I go back to school.

A lonely car flies down a lost highway, there are no other cars, only one driver negotiating a long road. The bird with orange shoulders nods slightly as the car passes. The weather is sunny, then rainy, then snowy. The air outside is still and quiet, the dark forms a hard blanket over the entire scene. The car continues driving.

The sun rises.

The river flows.