The wind was high, dry and hot as a hair dryer held like a gun to your head: Nogales in August. A parking lot of gravel and rocks, a sloping yellow dog inching and then slumping, following the shade across a weedy corner. The border fence an ineffectual, token barrier, made of tarnished tinfoil, hemmed on both sides by shacks of the same stuff. The wind is so harsh and the sun so bright it seems they come from the same place, like the sun is far too close and has begun to burn the tops of the trees, fanned by my breath and the breeze into a wicked blaze. It begins to eat at the power lines, the poles, the roofs, the very air is burning... a bright explosion of such sheer overstimulation that being blinded is my duty, looking away unthinkable.

It's like that. Like falling into the sun, like approaching an event horizon: I can see where the path goes into the glare and disappears, but beyond that...who can know? A paradigm shift... can't see the other side till you're there. But I'm ready for it, and I can't even tell you how excited. A sea-change working in my mind, a new iteration, permutation, understanding, even? Perhaps. Perhaps something else entirely. Whatever it is, I welcome it with open arms, with a smile and the greatest joy I've ever known.

Into the white, bring it on, baby!

Judged: Good
QOR: 7% evil, 93% good.

Labels: Art, Brendon, Hope, Love