REALITY? & WRITING: A Tuesday in June

Early on, as was predicted by The Weatherman the night before, the clouds hang as twisted sheets upon the clothesline of the morning sky. Grey and dingy, somehow old and worn but serviceable still. Bleaching lies to whiten only weaken threads that hold it all together over time. Comfortable, the color suits me well. The freshness still upon the scent of breezes traveling over one world to another, and another until each man upon the earth has felt the touch. The endless circle around a globe that wants to spin against the wind. Moving at a destined speed to bring an end that never comes and yet it ever will to each and every one. Reluctantly we must at last lay down at end of day and sigh and rest beneath the clouds, the nightlight of a star to guide us into sleep.