Or, I mean, when it’s no message at all.
Just when I’d felt safe in remarking on the [ __ blissful, __dull, ] unchanging scenery outside my window, something else unexpected happens out there.
I’m minding my own business, writing stories, when something catches the light in my peripheral vision. It’s… a square of white paper wafting brightly over the neighbors’ roof. It somersaults and whirls through the air like a too-graceful prop in a movie with a tinkling soundtrack adapted from Liszt. And then, just when a wind gust might sweep the note into someone else’s garden a pocket of calm catches it, landing it gently in the lollypop-green chutes on the honeysuckle vines.
I smile. A piece of ‘found art’ has just found me. I run skip go outside to retrieve it. What will it be? “Park bench, 4pm”? Lewd doodle? Quirky grocery list? Will another waft down, and then another, until I’m standing there beaming in an un-forecast accumulation of Post-Its, like the blissed-out chump in a new Sony advert?
No. It’s blank.
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