Perspective seems to have gone awry. Or rather, it has flattened. I walk towards the park and find my eyes resting on the outline of the bare trees against the bare sky, and as I'm moving nothing changes. Nothing changes. The trees are stationary and my feet are moving and the floor is surely passing beneath me but I'm static. It's like a treadmill. I move and move but nothing looks any different. Everything is far off, never coming closer, I'm tending towards a horizon and it always eludes. If the earth were flat I would have plunged from its edge by now. Still, it all seems that way. Two dimensions, at most. I think now of a poem I wrote weeks ago, without really ever understanding.
Attica
When I finally returned years later
everything seemed foreshortened
somehow, or flattened. Even the ceiling
beams seemed thinner. Lying
on the floorboards in the loft,
the dust streaming through the air
over golden rays of light -
it had never moved since.
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