The Conversion of Saint PaulCarly Sachs
It has already begun he told his wife. Someone is pushing the clouds past the mountains and the men are falling off their horses bits of silver shooting stars touch earth. Jacopo could see it all unfolding in the darkness of dreams but when morning light painted the walls of his spare room, he could only remember the small parts of his dreams. This morning he woke up and remembered the wind, the way it would have to rip across the canvas and not let anything go. But he did not know how to paint the wind and so he painted flags. Later this would bother him--- what made him choose the pink and yellow of tulips at twilight when everything else was primarily red and blue and brown. Sometimes the mountains he dreamt would have steps as if it was all you had to do to keep going up, but other times they were blue and distant. He did not know how it would all fit together, the horses already becoming clouds.
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