Well Geryon just another Saturday morning me laughing and you crying,

So many different kinds of stones, the sober and the uncanny, lying side by side in the red dirt. To stop and imagine the life of each one! Now they were sailing through the air from a happy human arm, what a fate.

He did not gesticulate. He did not knock on the glass. He waited. Small, red, and upright he waited, gripping his new bookbag tight in one hand and touching a lucky penny inside his coat pocket with the other, while the first snows of winter floated down on his eyelashes and covered the branches around him and silenced all trace of the world.

Geryon subsided into his overcoat letting the talk flow over him warm as a bath. He felt for the moment concrete and indivisible.

The car was enclosed in a dense fist of fog.

The petals of their colognes rose around them in a light terror.

The instant of nature forming between them drained every drop from the walls of his life leaving behind just ghosts rustling like an old map. He had nothing to say to anyone. He felt loose and shiny.

“To deny the existence of red is to deny the existence of mystery. The soul which does so will one day go mad.”

Oh don’t go, thought Geryon who felt himself starting to slide off the surface of the room like an olive off a plate. When the plate attained an angle of thirty degrees he would vanish into his own blankness.