Winter in the Northern hemisphere has a clarity denied to the other seasons. Sometimes the blue sky looks as if it had been painted by a brush that left behind no shadow of its strokes. As if the creator were absent from her creation, the sky would be itself, whole and perfectly blended. There is something to be said for proportion, but what affects me is the crest of a building framed against the blue sky.
To say that I search for clarity is to go too far, clarity requires annihilation, the death of its subject. Complete understanding must be death as well. Who wishes for either of these? I live among the shadows and the dreamers, like you do and all is indistinct. There are moments of clarity, I recollect (re-member, re-call) a day in Philadelphia. One day so crisp I feel it would shatter if I placed the entire weight of ME on it. The impure, it is quite clear, is also the strong.