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The oil continues ink spread, like dipped in it. Continue into the night, where the world fractures into shadows and shards. It is frustrating that writing about the night always sounds poetic since Sorensen's seem to have done away with anything melliferous, instead something tasting more like nickel. I think it's the green, the color of late-night television thrown onto bad carpet. It is science fiction lighting. Ominous green. Feel like seeing something, then seeing nothing.
See too: Glenn Sorensen at Annet Gelink