marox_pass_whoa fyn gula copello sat down on the stone steps leading to the porch. he could barely see helin, her blonde hair catching the sunlight of the fading day. she was busy talking to the old man, who was bent over, showing her found papers from thirty-seven years of collection and accumulation. a woodpecker was knocking on a dead tree. the scent of gardenia was strong in the air, coming from bright green plants in italian terracotta pots near his feet. and then that's when it hit him. he simply blinked his eyes and they felt, not heavy, but fluid, as if the blood that was flowing to them to give him sight was a swollen river after a rain. when he opened them and looked again at the gardenias, they appeared as though someone outlined them with a thin point sharpie, detailing every fold, each shadow. the woodpecker's tap became the rhythm of the moment. the stone steps, cold to the touch, began to undulate. the terracotta pots vibrated the full range of sunset colours, awakening a sense of their earthly origin. "whoa..." copello said, beginning to laugh. "motherfuck!" 010901 what's it to you? who go blather from