I love this cool and cloudy weather. They are not dark clouds, but bright variations of grey, grey-blue and antique white. The world is not shadowy beneath them, just evenly illuminated. Maybe it is the photographer in me that appreciates softly lit days; there is one in me, even though I never let him take any pictures. It could be the depressed genius in me—who, like the photographer, I also prevent from giving evidence of his existence—who is soothed by the cool air and the grey light.
The windows are open, letting in all the quiet of this suburban-ish city neighborhood. The gloaming comes early on days like this. The air is still and the trees are sleepy and flush with fresh foliage, like dozing children. A distant bird sings.
I could get dressed and venture into the environs to take a photograph, but images capture so little; the air, the hush, the coolness. And then, what purpose, poetry? Who lives who has not loved? Who dies who has not railed against the coming of the night, his screams echoing only in some other dimension?
I guess I am neither poet nor photographer. So’s I guess I’ll just write some prose, and take a snapshot. Standby…