Early AM. Brighton, CO. Gleering, green, 5:47 flashed on the microwave. I was nearly ready. Keys, check, wallet, check. Backpack, sketchbook, check, anatomy book, check. Book, history of the paradox, check. I took a few swipes at my teeth in the downstairs bathroom, then dropped a few horses in my tank as I guzzled down the rest of the Joe in a big gulp cup. And out-- the back door. Dawn had not rolled over yet, it was yet misty darklit with but moonlight, shining out from over the watertanks, slowly sinking towards the horizon. A slight wind floated through, over the empty fields across the street, carrying the scent of fall and sage. The horizon, jagged and black with the sillohuettes of tract houses, cut through the night, injuring it, now bleeding blue slight, the blue of daylight. In my flips I flopped over the culvert and headed to the hundred yards to bus stop, and stood.

Rip roaring, torn felt. It began, noticeable, on the bus. The bus vibrations at first was not a problem for me. I simple kept drawing, holding the pen further back, as on a lever, to absorb it all. The vibrations focused the work, each sketch being nothing more than it was: a study. Over weeks, though, passengers and space encroached, little by little I lost space. The ride became longer. I lost my elbow room. Leering eyes became treacherous to concentration. Comments began, and time alone ended. After awhile I stopped drawing on the bus, and began reading instead.