The air was crisp, heavy. It was morning and the dew would stick around. Balmy. The overhead clouds would not dissipate, would not let things progress. Stalwart. Giant hulks of ships eclipsing the natural progression of a normal and bliss filled day.
“Bullocks,” Stephen said. But he sat down anyway.
“Bullocks,” and he got back up, hand swiped the water in quick sprays, the less to soak in his pants. It was a park and it was lusciously green and fulfilling. The bugs were there and some were still making noises and that was just fine, and the birds were there and some had begun making noises and that was just fine. The day would gently pulse and then sleep, without climax and without extension. The sun would miss its daily episode of us–foggy signal and sulky spirits–but he could tomorrow prop his big burnings on the coffee stove and flip on the tuberooski. Wonder who’s carcrashed today? Flew the news. Dead done. Celebrity celebrated.
And the sun cracked one, loosened its load, and slept in front of a big, blank screen.
It is all not alright. It is all not alright, but we move like it’s somehow preset to be–like the air smells of popcorn and the sky is laughing, yawning his arm around his girl and wishing, secretly, that he could be like us.