June 4, 2009

A violent sky drifting over a white moon that seems to have some dominant power despite it’s diminutive status lately. As though I’ve never seen the moon to begin with. The weather must be privy to its own mythologies, but not to our own: the horror movies associated, for instance, with the windy evenings, the balmy nights, the cloudy and clear dark skies—to the sky they mean nothing, but somehow they mean something to us. Half my vision is orange, just below the powerlines of the buses, and above, just above the man leaning ominously against the wall there is a purplish blue a bluish black that permeates all other thought.