in his dreams he sees the reflection of her eyes in the sunlight as snow. she looks up at the heavens, smiling. it is one of those quizzical looks where you can't really tell what is amusing her so. but she looks and she smiles, that is all that is important to him in his vision. there is a tang of something inside that is happening to him. he doesn't quite understand it. it is something between the elation of a happy moment and the trepidation of one's worst fears. the grays of reality that he has come to accept elude his vision. the strange comfort of knowing that nothing is really as it seems give way to a range of siena and then finally grays finalized by the rich harshness of black and white. in the way that weston can depict blacks and whites, his world has suddenly become something that is categorically undeniable in its richness and extremes. he is not ready for this. this thing, this thing that is changing his emotional anatomy. this thing that is changing the shape of the vessel that he carries the things he cares about. it is changing without his volition and his permission. how did he get here? it can't be because of a smile. it can't be from the sound of her voice. they must have known each other in another life. simple silk threads crossing over time and space in a manner that would drive einstein insane.
what does one do when paths cross this way?