Cascade (From the Lost Notebooks of David Foster Wallace)

Outside the living room’s glazed fenestration the clumpy cover of an overly imbricated sky (almost herringbone with scattered tumbles of bruised indigo specks) was humming a spendthrift carnival tune, and a sharp stiletto of wind had opened up a lofty cataract of bright that came blindingly shimmering down, cutting a Wonder-Bread slice out of the wispy strands of curdled clouds cluttered…