August 27th, 2017

caillebotte_man at his window


The air that refuses to cool though the sun is hidden feels like an anathema that has has been pronounced, as though the day were some priest, or the Pope of time itself, delivering inescapable judgment. The crickets' buzz, agitated nerves of night, vibrates inside my head like a mental sweat trying to evaporate consciousness.

The fattening moon hangs like a reproach to the repose of darkness, and my mind evokes from the sight of it a fallacious sympathy that casts it as a smug villain, entranced by its own slow dervish dance with earth and sun, all the while mocking me for being trapped in an indifferent celestial routine that drags me through these heavy, tedious summer days, gravity's forsaken toy.

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