It's leather, and the red of rainier cherries, and studded in the brightest brass. Knobbly feet claw a fresh new road and gouge shallow ruts. It's height gave no mention of it's weight, a slender but gripping chair that heaved and hoed across the space.

It is currently orange, Raserei's surroundings, though it frequently makes rotations through other colors and their hues, oscillating in flickers of reds to blacks to the brightest teals. And though the color infuses the surroundings, lends shadows and dapples to the structures around him, though it seeps and bleeds into the fabric and metal, it never lingers long.

About him were studious men and women, eagerly carving their niche into the emptiness by building high houses with wavy eaves and open windows, to bring in light and air, both of equal weightiness; with stout foundations and lofty attic. And they build them quickly, inviting in their guests as the last linen is shaking, as the final light bulb is screwing.

Raserei picks a spot in a wide, open field: deeper than it is wide, but wider still than many. He drags his chair across the lot line and stops, committing this corner to officery. He gets out a log, a journal, a checkbook, and a sketch pad with many small squares in light cyan graphs. From his coat pocket, he removes an ink bottle and pen, unscrewing it swiftly and filling the core, then spinning the two back together and writes, in slow, tiny print, his letters adjusting to their new home, growing then shrinking as Raserei reminds himself of form as well as function.

Making loggings, he writes, then notations, sketches, and investments. Materials are cheap, they only require time, of which he has a wallet full of, time. Grey-blue notes that shimmer in moonlight, marked in hours from ones and fives to days, weeks, and even the yellow one year note, one half again longer than the rest. In his pocket rings minutes, which when he writes, seem to fall from his trousers. He spends the longest on his sketches, sitting in the chair smoking and ashing into the wind while he drew, making turns and corners on the graphs, scaping in his mind spaces that he will convert into physicality.

Standing up, he flicks his cigarette butt into the neighbor's lawn, neatly trimmed and with fresh dog droppings. He takes note, and reminds himself openly to set up a fence. Nothing that brings neighbors closer, he figures.

Raserei waves down a passer-by, and talks to her, explaining what he needs. As he speaks, behind him grows a small house, cozy and open for as many as it needs. It unfolds and rightens in the far front corner of the lot, scaled in bright stone and smooth wood. Raserei describes the interior, red curtains and cherry tables with green lamps and leather books and one robin-egg-blue teapot in a bright yellow cozy.

After about thirty minutes, Raserei withdraws a wide, flat token with thirty stars. He hands it to the woman and asks.

"It's not much, but won't you spend your time with me?"

She takes the token and smiles, slipping it in her palm underneath her glove, and walks to the far front corner with Raserei, as he invites her in formally, offers tea, soda, anything she wishes. She takes to tea warmly, and he begins to brew a pot. He leaves the door open, propping the screen door and lifting the windows, switching on the fans, looking out the windows for passer-bys, for people to take pastries, and notes from his wallet, and coins from his trousers.

To spend their time wisely, warmly, willingly.