Sun in the sky. Heart of gold in a field of blue, and the world cracks open.
You are knowing something. There you are.
As with all of us, the Scarecrow awoke knowing he had been for some
time already, though unwoken. There was a sense of vanishing splendor in
the world about him, an echo of a lost sound even before he knew what
sound or echo meant. The backward crush of time and, also, time’s forward
rush. The knife of light between his eyes. The wound of hollowness behind
his forehead. There was motion, sound, color; there was scent, death, hope.
- Gregory Maguire, Scarecrow
|By Felix Girard|