S. Worthen | Weblog

The room is filled with rows of wooden desks with built-in desk, tan-hued wood against tan floor boards, the bright, cold winter light without paling the browns of buildings without into tan as well. The soothing hum of fan insulates the room from noise, a cocoon of sound.

At the front, my words are projected faintly onto a yellow-saturated screen, colors wan in the daffodil-tinted onslaught. I can't find any way to effetively alter the screen's jaundiced pallor, and it renders colored photographs sickly and indistinct. But the gist is there - the outline of hilltops or the burdened twist of spine - and magnifying details helps for image if not shade. My words are writ large here in yellow light, where I alone can see them.