
Brown, broken cylinders alongside white and black pebbles run-up to the green towers reaching towards the ever-constant sky. Giant legs spindle white thread over the translucent, green stairsteps winding up as if to brush up against the turbines which lay stationary on most days, especially today when the only light cascading down is from the artificial, twin suns placed above the mountains of brick. The papered-over tissue, layer upon layer of cotton on dust on cotton, envelopes the weaver and clears away its tapestry, although it is most likely better this way as the force caused by the impact of stopping flight rips away at the connection between the stairs and their banisters. The hardwood floor is always cold on cloudy days, but in this picturesque, Chicago suburb where the flowers bloom long past the end of spring and the grass grows into a mature green by the beginning of April it might seem impossible for this to be true, and yet it is quite obvious that it is in the way that foot meets the floor, or rather its quick removal.