The landscape passed, film in a projector reel; light playing off the forms of the hills, flickering like a consciousness. Hardly touchable. Some grand, classical piece she’d stare at for an hour, or hours, in one of her museums, behind the glass. Fall tones of gold and olive against the still-viridian highlands, against the vast waving grasses, against the high, deep rocks lining the sun-flecked sea. Brushstrokes. Dots of titanium white on the backs of flocked sheep.

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The landscape passed, film in a projector reel; light playing off the forms of the hills, flickering like a consciousness. Rather than something real, it seemed a grand, classical piece she’d stare at for an hour, or hours, in one of her museums. Fall tones of gold and olive against the still-viridian highlands, against the vast waving grasses, against the high, deep rocks lining the sun-flecked sea. Brushstrokes. Dots of titanium white on the backs of flocked sheep.

- Excerpt from The Platform