breathless

the morning fog deadens sound and smells like the back of a storm front. we shift between seasons, a rapid cycling through the unbearableness of mid-july and the desperate press of late-october.

when i'm trapped in a bubble of traffic, anxious revolutions buzzing at my feet and restless for a window, i remember: the sunsets are always good. nothing can be so bad if the sunsets are good.

04 September 2014 08:26