At first, all the past villages and townships come back in single charcoal lines. An outline, then a sketch. At the end of the world there is… In the end, the world is cream as clean paper, and then the walkways and porches shade in, shadows seep up as if the sheet of paper’s been set on something wet. Then all at once: brilliant color, color even Chagall couldn’t imagine. Realer than real, hyper-real. Everyone’s face is too bright, the sky a wild cerulean. I don’t know why we always think of our old countries only in sepia tones, wine-dark, all our ancestors in muted and mourning colors when
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