She left her notebook behind, filled with shapes sketched against a yellowed page. Sometimes, I picture the sun tracing lazy arcs, and I wonder what she saw. Perhaps it was different, perhaps not.
Solar signals whisper from distant reaches, carrying voices like dusty corridors unfurling in the dusk.
Under the solar lights, we played baseball, hoping to reach the stars that seemed so close one summer.
The ironic glow of fossil lights... sometimes, I hear the echo of laughter carried on paper-thin whispers like fading remembrance in a twilight breeze.
There was a time when shadows painted themselves over tangential lines. In mathematics, in meaning, maybe, who knows?
Adventures written in solar scripts, curling into oblivion, awaiting reclamation in dreams of psalms we forgot how to say.