- Mood:
Artistic - Listening to: Broadcast
- Reading: The Gum Thief
- Watching: Blow Up
- Drinking: Pellegrino
This, from a mood:
A white building with many black windows and black balconies with metal shaped like lace stands in the city night. There is a terrible noise growing from the street level, of automobiles and stiff, leather boots and people shouting their different lives at one another. The light too is a mess: a stoplight turns from red to green, a butcher's window glows blue, and a ladies' fashion store is as bright as white has ever been. The streets are impossible with impossible life.
Up high, on one of the balconies lies a person, spread out on the cold surface of the overhang. The hang, it blocks out the terrible noise, the miscalculated light, and leaves only that which the person chooses: a single lampshade, and a radio, playing a tune too faint to be understood as anything more than not silence. It is pleasing and causes a smile.
Inside, a lover sleeps in the comfort of the fluff and the darkness, the eyes slowly twitching with a dream. No sound can be heard from the world outside, and no electric freezer dins so prolonged we forget it is not silence -- it is quiet as nature intended. The face might be smiling, the mind a mess of thoughts from the day: of light and sound, of reds and blues and whites, of motor engines and lives shouting at one another -- an impossible mix; the impossible beauty of a dream, projected as the street below.
The Way You're Meant to Be
Tired
