And now the heat of the day had gone and the light of the sky was fading from scarlet to rose and from cobalt to powdered violet and as the lights began to flash on Cosnahan asked himself: What was so theatrical about a swift flurry of figures or one lone figure under an arc light in a great city?
He would have liked to „get it“, to capture too – he felt an almost passionate desire to capture – the beauty of the unending processions … And now it is marathon moon of tangerine. Arcturus. Spica. Fomalhaut. The Eagle; and the Lyre. (Malcolm Lowry)

Where the tangerines blossom – keep it coming. Under the vast vapid ravines called sky.

[All pics by Katharina Copony]