Self-Portrait #284:

The network of fine lines between his knuckles look thin and gray in the twilight. He opens and closes them and imagines dozens of tiny farmers working the barren fields in vain. A book falls shut. He tastes the smoke across the ridged roof of his mouth, trying to remember the first time. But it all blends like the shades of purple and red that have painted another October sky. Wonders why you would ever look back while falling. Cars and trucks heading south on the highway begin to turn on their lights in slow, random intervals. No new sounds. His mouth moves as he caresses his fingers, as if consoling them for the existence of time.