The glory of the sun decreases after the slow explosion of color as of a Van Gogh or a Gauguin — being poor was how they let the coral from tubes of paint squeeze out to the end and fill the whole world, posthumously, with unanticipated splendor. Just like that, I empty my pockets and remove my shoes to pass through the gates of the dawn, empty and strangely alive at the tail end of the dying world.
