The Morning Glory draped fence angles at a mellow grade across the view. It is a wildly speckled affair; ruffles of greens stippled with noonday shadow. The manically cluttered plane rises up like a lumpy wave, obscuring what is directly beyond. (Though of course, we know what’s there.) The “green” of these tens of thousands of leaves leans towards yellower hues. Showing through in patches, there can be seen an armature of dead, brown vines; it is on this that the newer surface hangs. Nearer to us, sit two large automotive heaps. Each exude a provincial lurching aspect, embodying those prosaic strivings of mundane computational exploration. Acute, crimped shards, shape their bulks with an implication of “future” and “speed” (tacky husks of Marinetti’s long outworn manifesto). They are mildly insulting as all things that could be imaginative but aren’t, are. Beyond the fence, green against green, can be seen the full crown of a Jacaranda tree. Its dome of fine, fern-like leaves, softens it at this distance, making it vague to view. Today’s mellow wind pushes the mass to sway languidly — a green wig in an undulating pool. Between the tree and the fence shoots up the wood shaft of a utility pole. The large pine post looks absurdly primitive — its lumberjack rawness belies its role in “technology” and “electricity.” From it, swoop the bowing black lines of its wires. Normally we find the haphazardness of these cables disappointing, but today they seem graceful, by way of feeling casually economical. And beyond all this, the terrifying sky. A “sky” maniacally specific in its blueness. A void unerringly persistent in its blueness.
        It is worth noting that this scene has changed a lot through the course of the day, so much so that now, being night outside the window, none of it can be seen at all.