Light is lemon wrung in slate cloud, douce on children’s skin. Their faces are bright as film. As time goes, it’s hard to see them, they are fast and sleek as fish. They lurk in the hems of eyelids with their gurgling, lure you down to long forgotten shirt sizes, half remembered pain. It is incorrigible their endless trying to make sense or nonsense of everything, the artifice of children still conniving with the world.