The skies looking north this morning were an awesome orange with linear hints of red. The painting over the City looked as if God herself had taken a brush and applied it wantonly in lithe strokes, haunting us mere mortals by evoking a looming scene of eerie serenity—almost as if to say that nothing we might attempt to create could ever approach the magnificent beauty of the random expression of Her imagination.

What made it all the more amazing was that it was all too ephemeral. Unless someone had had the foresight to prepare a panoramic shot, even a photograph of the widest angle could barely do justice to these precious minutes of utter splendor.

The fact that we will never see it again makes Her work all the more moving—and it presents us with the essence of what it takes to manifest perfection.

And thus, this is what makes the odes, the euphoric movements, the eloquent phrasing, and the euphonic verse of artists and lovers so vital to our existence—the best of them enrapture us in what is otherwise a fleeting moment.

back then when .71 73. feeling quixotic (about string theory)

l.m