Paradise.
I can see it out the back window. In between the shadows of the twilight, specks of starlight jump and dance in the sky. There, in my rear-view, is the most lovely length of bruised sky stretched across the line beyond everything. And the sun, so clever, begins to lean on the horizon nonchalantly, moving in on the earth until it is swallowed whole. It is beauty. There is a scent in the air that drifts through my window, light and fluffy with innocence. I'm in a hurry, but can't bring my foot to swell the speed; it's too nice to miss, even for a mile. Now it is dark. The half-hearted sun has accepted defeat, and now the moon gives her stolen light back. I slow down, slower, slower, even slower yet, and I feel the stopping and I see the stillness and I hear the silence and I smell the dry, cold, relentless draft and I taste. I taste it all. All and all, I taste everything about it. And everything is nothing at all. Nothing that never will be, ever, even on the occasion that it is that or this or him. I can see it out the back window, creeping closer away from me. I have seen it, yes, but it is nothing to see. I have heard only that of nothing. Being and nothingness, it is all the same. For all in all, there is no such thing as such things that--
