Shoe Monk cannot handled the bluing of the sky. No one likes a smart-ass. He cannot wear a blue tie. He cannot change the colour of his shoe. He is not Colour Wheel Man. He is Shoe Monk. (One day, if he plays his cards right with the patriarch of Shoeboxopolis, he may become Shoe Sebastokrator.)
Gilt birds follow him in flocks of silences that recursively tell him of the moon, always distant, always silent, birdlike in its fits of loss. He turns to home.
