I heard rain this morning- a crackling sound from outside of my window, like how embers pop in a bonfire. A thought came to me as I remained lying of toxic radiant green-ness, eating at the walls of my building, like the atmosphere was compromised and the insides of buildings were a bastion for a hellish ripping apart.
I took a nap. I rode to school on a bike and thought still about the anthropocenenic vistas of a failing ecology. The world was indeed alien feeling as the sounds suggested upon waking.
Frost covered the ground (or was it salt? , but they wouldn’t salt the lawns, would they?) and the road I thought would be merely wet had also sections with crystalization- slush. I rode through streets with up to an inch of slush, and thought about end times. How cynical to conclude that the weather represents something so large as a finite end- it’s just a feeling, but it feels like more than that, on rainy days a feeling may seem as fact, an artifact from past tracks. A clack on metal framed rack, my u-lock, brings me back- but only to the beginning of the thought itself- today’s staging of the same scene- a commute; late to a self-guided class in a hall of plaster casts. I draw.
A soft romantic throws a rope tied to a life raft. A note scrawled onto the side reads ‘to commiserators idly waxing the abstract, grab hold’, and I’ll see you around. a veritable sandbox of verisimilitude and brass tacks, egads!
