tracing_paper birdmad there are days when, through the shroud of pollutant haze and light fog that the world looks less and less like anything and more and more like a half-thought out sketch of itself. one morning, during a rare, foggy day, the open courtyard of the school was like a cathedral in some odd way. The clouds were low enough to be the ceiling and the light from the rising sun angled off a mirrored highrise projected a swath of diamond shaped sunbeams down to where we sat it's in moments like that you get some minor grasp of the notions of words like ethereal and ephemeral brief moments of fleeting beauty in places that tend to be grey 040124 what's it to you? who go blather from