The Forgotten Crew
A clear night, with a waning crescent giving the faintest hint of light. The ocean stands still and calm, the only disturbance the movement of the ship. No name is painted on its bow, nor flag flown from the mast. In the hold there exists a smoky tavern sparsely filled with patrons. A gentle susurration fills the room, a combination of the ocean gliding past and the whispered conversations of those wishing to escape the loneliness of the night while not daring to break its silence. In the corner a man pulls out a stringed instrument, a weary and battered thing, a commences a melody. Gentle, at first, it seems to underlay the conversation but soon grows into a haunting sound that barely seems to rise above the surrounding noise. It speaks of the loss of something fundamental and of the longing to return where one cannot. It strikes a chord with patrons who, one by one, add their voices together in song.
“Oh the war was long, and the guns were loud. Leave home, Johnny, leave home! I guess it’s time for us to go and it’s time for us to leave home. Leave home, Johnny, leave home! Oh, leave home, Johnny, leave home! Oh the land was fine, but the king is dead. And it’s time for us to leave home. Leave home, Johnny, leave home! Oh I thought I heard the old man say, leave home, Johnny, leave home! Cause they killed your family anyway, and it’s time for us to leave home.”
The song continues on into the night, growing and diminishing as sailors enter and leave. So go to lie in bunks and feign sleep, some go to the forecastle to weep. Some rise from sleep to keep watch, some sit and remember the lochs. The ship is a place of sorrow, home to exiled men, sent to their doom on a one way voyage into the unknown. Provisioned only a few months, their stores run low even as sight of land eludes them. By day they work hard to forget themselves and their lot, but at night they sing mournful melodies to carry them through to another day. The captain’s set a course for where the dragons be while the lookout does his best to find something to see. They sail south and westward and steer by the sun and stars.
“Oh the war was long, and the guns were loud. Leave home, Johnny, leave home! I guess it’s time for us to go and it’s time for us to leave home. Leave home, Johnny, leave home! Oh, leave home, Johnny, leave home! Oh the land was fine, but the king is dead. And it’s time for us to leave home. Leave home, Johnny, leave home! Oh I thought I heard the old man say, leave home, Johnny, leave home! Cause they killed your family anyway, and it’s time for us to leave home.”
The song continues on into the night, growing and diminishing as sailors enter and leave. So go to lie in bunks and feign sleep, some go to the forecastle to weep. Some rise from sleep to keep watch, some sit and remember the lochs. The ship is a place of sorrow, home to exiled men, sent to their doom on a one way voyage into the unknown. Provisioned only a few months, their stores run low even as sight of land eludes them. By day they work hard to forget themselves and their lot, but at night they sing mournful melodies to carry them through to another day. The captain’s set a course for where the dragons be while the lookout does his best to find something to see. They sail south and westward and steer by the sun and stars.
A City Stargazer
Dear Katherine,
I miss you. I wish you were here. I had no idea that such a big part of me had been missing for so many years until you left. But that’s selfish of me; to distract you, to bring you down, when you’re on your way to so many great things. So Katherine, where have the stars gone?
I walk to the bus station in the night, the sky not yet beginning to lighten, and above me is a field sable, with maybe four white flecks, so incredibly distant and dull. Is this what has become of the stars?
An hour later I come into town and walk to school, the bottom edge of the horizon just becoming a shade of blue, and there are only two dots in the midst of the infinite field.
I get to school and look out from the steps. The sky has more blue than white and the moon disappeared long ago but still I see a single, white, star. I think that it must be so blazingly bright for me to see it as well as I do, but still I wonder. Why have we covered up the stars?
It doesn’t have to be like this, for so many years the stars shone like rivers and oceans of blazing fires, swirling in the dark cosmic oceans and marking our safe haven as one of miraculous proportions. But we’ve shunned the lights of the abyss for artificial means and in doing so made the abyss seemed so much more foreign, colder and unforgiving. I think this is why we’ve stopped reaching for the stars: we can no longer see what we’re meant to be reaching for.
For thousands of years, we tried to explain that beautiful dance the we saw, to explain how something so chaotically beautiful could exist. Every night something happened as dusk faded into twilight and twilight shifted to the dark night: the stars came out and put on their show for those who cared to gaze upwards. But that show has ended or so it seems, not with a bang, but my drawing down the curtain of light that makes the night so much darker.
What I’m trying to say is that you were the one I’d talk to about this and so many other questions. Everyone else it seems would simply laugh at how deep I’d go with it, but I think you saw something beautiful in it and I wish I could see it without you.
With Love,
A City Stargazer
I miss you. I wish you were here. I had no idea that such a big part of me had been missing for so many years until you left. But that’s selfish of me; to distract you, to bring you down, when you’re on your way to so many great things. So Katherine, where have the stars gone?
I walk to the bus station in the night, the sky not yet beginning to lighten, and above me is a field sable, with maybe four white flecks, so incredibly distant and dull. Is this what has become of the stars?
An hour later I come into town and walk to school, the bottom edge of the horizon just becoming a shade of blue, and there are only two dots in the midst of the infinite field.
I get to school and look out from the steps. The sky has more blue than white and the moon disappeared long ago but still I see a single, white, star. I think that it must be so blazingly bright for me to see it as well as I do, but still I wonder. Why have we covered up the stars?
It doesn’t have to be like this, for so many years the stars shone like rivers and oceans of blazing fires, swirling in the dark cosmic oceans and marking our safe haven as one of miraculous proportions. But we’ve shunned the lights of the abyss for artificial means and in doing so made the abyss seemed so much more foreign, colder and unforgiving. I think this is why we’ve stopped reaching for the stars: we can no longer see what we’re meant to be reaching for.
For thousands of years, we tried to explain that beautiful dance the we saw, to explain how something so chaotically beautiful could exist. Every night something happened as dusk faded into twilight and twilight shifted to the dark night: the stars came out and put on their show for those who cared to gaze upwards. But that show has ended or so it seems, not with a bang, but my drawing down the curtain of light that makes the night so much darker.
What I’m trying to say is that you were the one I’d talk to about this and so many other questions. Everyone else it seems would simply laugh at how deep I’d go with it, but I think you saw something beautiful in it and I wish I could see it without you.
With Love,
A City Stargazer
The Death of the World
The ice came down last night. I missed it, I was reading. This morning I left in a hurry, rushed outside and slipped immediately. I got back up and, treading more carefully, carried on. It was a twenty minute walk to school and on the way I fell three more times but that didn’t matter. I was paying attention to where I was going because my eyes were locked on the world around me.
The world was covered in a silver lining, a shimmering coat that distorted everything I saw had been distorted in the most wondrous way possible. Through the inch of ice I could see the world I always saw, the leaves of the tree hadn’t moved, neither had the parking meters or the restaurants or the street signs. But in the ice I saw the sky, great Ouranos superimposed over the world and letting everything swim in the atmospheric ocean.
I didn’t see anyone. Not a soul. Nor did I see a car, a bike, a bus, nothing. Nothing moved, no birds sang, from no window did I hear a sudden laugh and no doorway opened in the dawn to spill forth the golden warmth of the indoors. It seemed that the ice had put the world to sleep, for sleep the world did and I remained the odd one out.
I made it to school and saw no one still. I found the door unlocked and so stayed and read and waited, waited for the world to reawaken and shake off the kiss of Jack Frost, waited for my reunion with the world and my exit from this icy limbo I had stumbled into, waited for the spring thaw the bring me out of that land where the land swam in the sky.
A few hours later, when I had finished my book, I walked home. The sun had finished her slow ascension and the ice was no longer a worldwide sheet, and had become a river rushing beneath the sky’s reflection. Still no one moved and still I lived alone but the spell had been broken as from the occasional balcony the words “What are you, crazy?” would drift down upon my ears and I would respond with the only true answer I could give “I suppose so, either that or every died this morning!” I’d follow with a laugh and trudge on home, where I saw that the world continued to sleep and I decided to join them.
The world was covered in a silver lining, a shimmering coat that distorted everything I saw had been distorted in the most wondrous way possible. Through the inch of ice I could see the world I always saw, the leaves of the tree hadn’t moved, neither had the parking meters or the restaurants or the street signs. But in the ice I saw the sky, great Ouranos superimposed over the world and letting everything swim in the atmospheric ocean.
I didn’t see anyone. Not a soul. Nor did I see a car, a bike, a bus, nothing. Nothing moved, no birds sang, from no window did I hear a sudden laugh and no doorway opened in the dawn to spill forth the golden warmth of the indoors. It seemed that the ice had put the world to sleep, for sleep the world did and I remained the odd one out.
I made it to school and saw no one still. I found the door unlocked and so stayed and read and waited, waited for the world to reawaken and shake off the kiss of Jack Frost, waited for my reunion with the world and my exit from this icy limbo I had stumbled into, waited for the spring thaw the bring me out of that land where the land swam in the sky.
A few hours later, when I had finished my book, I walked home. The sun had finished her slow ascension and the ice was no longer a worldwide sheet, and had become a river rushing beneath the sky’s reflection. Still no one moved and still I lived alone but the spell had been broken as from the occasional balcony the words “What are you, crazy?” would drift down upon my ears and I would respond with the only true answer I could give “I suppose so, either that or every died this morning!” I’d follow with a laugh and trudge on home, where I saw that the world continued to sleep and I decided to join them.
A Wanderer's Explanation
I was walking last night, aimlessly and alone.
Walking because I love the feeling of the ground beneath my feet, the feeling of moving myself by myself, and most of all the feeling of being somewhere I have never been before.
Aimlessly because I have a need to go to new places, a need to scout out the world around me, a need to feel as many places beneath myself as I possibly can.
Night because I can hear the wind whipping by going from the noplace in front to the nowhere behind, can hear the tiny squeaks and chirps and rustles that make up the nocturnal chorus, can truly hear my thoughts as the murmuring silence envelops me.
Alone because anyone else might feel the need to break in upon my silent celebration, might question me when I break into laughter or bits of broken song or hug myself or skip and run and enjoy life for no apparent reason, might not understand that which is so beautiful about the late night when not another person is about and every place that holds so many during the day is a tomb unto itself and every park becomes a jungle and every creek a raging torrent and the mighty river has become an ocean of forty feet and everything stays the same yet is irrevocably changed but changed in ways that set the imagination into a joyous dance set to the chirps of crickets and the flutes of bats and the drums of owls and the voices of cicadas and for once in my life I feel that there could be something to the soul if it allows me to transform the dull humdrum of a city by the day into the fantasies of the night and I can only do it alone because I need to know that this nightly majesty will lie in wait for me tonight and every night after and I couldn’t bare it if after I bring someone with me through this wardrobe I will feel it slip away from my grasp forever.
I was dreaming last night, moving from the nowhere behind to the noplace in front with the wind, from the forested concert hall to the riverside opera house alongside the nightly chorus, from one mark on the eternal map of my mind to another, making no progress and yet knowing that every distance traversed is cause for celebration.
I celebrated in my own way, by breaking out into my internal medley made up of every song I’ve ever heard, by running and jumping and skipping, by laughing wildly into the sky and wishing to any god that this magical solitude need never end.
I woke up this morning and began again the wait for the night.
Walking because I love the feeling of the ground beneath my feet, the feeling of moving myself by myself, and most of all the feeling of being somewhere I have never been before.
Aimlessly because I have a need to go to new places, a need to scout out the world around me, a need to feel as many places beneath myself as I possibly can.
Night because I can hear the wind whipping by going from the noplace in front to the nowhere behind, can hear the tiny squeaks and chirps and rustles that make up the nocturnal chorus, can truly hear my thoughts as the murmuring silence envelops me.
Alone because anyone else might feel the need to break in upon my silent celebration, might question me when I break into laughter or bits of broken song or hug myself or skip and run and enjoy life for no apparent reason, might not understand that which is so beautiful about the late night when not another person is about and every place that holds so many during the day is a tomb unto itself and every park becomes a jungle and every creek a raging torrent and the mighty river has become an ocean of forty feet and everything stays the same yet is irrevocably changed but changed in ways that set the imagination into a joyous dance set to the chirps of crickets and the flutes of bats and the drums of owls and the voices of cicadas and for once in my life I feel that there could be something to the soul if it allows me to transform the dull humdrum of a city by the day into the fantasies of the night and I can only do it alone because I need to know that this nightly majesty will lie in wait for me tonight and every night after and I couldn’t bare it if after I bring someone with me through this wardrobe I will feel it slip away from my grasp forever.
I was dreaming last night, moving from the nowhere behind to the noplace in front with the wind, from the forested concert hall to the riverside opera house alongside the nightly chorus, from one mark on the eternal map of my mind to another, making no progress and yet knowing that every distance traversed is cause for celebration.
I celebrated in my own way, by breaking out into my internal medley made up of every song I’ve ever heard, by running and jumping and skipping, by laughing wildly into the sky and wishing to any god that this magical solitude need never end.
I woke up this morning and began again the wait for the night.
A Dream of Reality
For every night I stayed awake, dreaming,
Your face appeared before my eyes, defined
By your eyes, and I lay there, crystallized,
Enraptured as my heart kept on feeling.
Alighted on the window sill, tonight
You sit and whisper secrets in my ear
But I couldn’t hear, though you were so near,
And you blew away on the sweet moonlight.
In the middle of the night I awake,
With my heart dancing around in my chest.
I smell lavender, the scent on your breast,
Floating on the air but still you feel fake.
You breathe so peacefully in your still sleep,
And I, in remembrance of you, still weep
Your face appeared before my eyes, defined
By your eyes, and I lay there, crystallized,
Enraptured as my heart kept on feeling.
Alighted on the window sill, tonight
You sit and whisper secrets in my ear
But I couldn’t hear, though you were so near,
And you blew away on the sweet moonlight.
In the middle of the night I awake,
With my heart dancing around in my chest.
I smell lavender, the scent on your breast,
Floating on the air but still you feel fake.
You breathe so peacefully in your still sleep,
And I, in remembrance of you, still weep
The Garden of My Mind
My mind is a garden
Filled with the plants of emotion
Love and lust, hatred and affability,
All grow under my watchful eye.
I trim the unruly thorns of deceit and allow the beauty of humor to prosper.
Throughout this garden music plays,
Normally soft and serene, it teases the ears with a sound like soft flutes, filling the garden with
Calm.
Although at times the drums of war rage through, trampling the more delicate flora in favor of the
warlike thistles of rage and hate.
The music, no matter the tone, comes and goes, waxes and wanes, feeding that which grows all
the same.
My garden is my retreat, whether from boredom or strife
My garden is where you’ll find me, pondering of a night
I go there when I read, when I think, when I gaze at the infinite nothing I am gazing at my garden,
And trimming here, weeding there, hoping to provide its sole inhabitant with love and care.
I visit my garden to find peace among the confusion, to sort through the random ideas that
threaten to blow my garden apart like a summer storm.
And whether my visits last an hour or a second, the trip was always worth it.
Filled with the plants of emotion
Love and lust, hatred and affability,
All grow under my watchful eye.
I trim the unruly thorns of deceit and allow the beauty of humor to prosper.
Throughout this garden music plays,
Normally soft and serene, it teases the ears with a sound like soft flutes, filling the garden with
Calm.
Although at times the drums of war rage through, trampling the more delicate flora in favor of the
warlike thistles of rage and hate.
The music, no matter the tone, comes and goes, waxes and wanes, feeding that which grows all
the same.
My garden is my retreat, whether from boredom or strife
My garden is where you’ll find me, pondering of a night
I go there when I read, when I think, when I gaze at the infinite nothing I am gazing at my garden,
And trimming here, weeding there, hoping to provide its sole inhabitant with love and care.
I visit my garden to find peace among the confusion, to sort through the random ideas that
threaten to blow my garden apart like a summer storm.
And whether my visits last an hour or a second, the trip was always worth it.
Page 251
“Anyone could find you”
Is a very true sentiment when I’m on the roof screaming.
“I found a shoebox that I keep things in”
But unfortunately I lost it again. It’s a real shame too; I liked those photos.
“He eyed the flask nervously”,
He knew how these nights tend to end.
“What does it matter what fools call him?”
Well no one likes being called a doo-doo head, so there’s that.
“The wicked part of a war is its beginning”
Said my grandfather but I still don’t understand what’s so sick about war, I mean, people die.
“Do you remember anything?”
No, only that I really miss that damn shoebox.
“Be prepared to appreciate what you meet”
She said on my first day as a Walmart greeter, and dear lord I was not prepared.
“Why may not imagination trace the noble dust of Alexander till he find it stopping a bunghole?”
He shouted at me. I didn’t have an answer as he was standing on the roof, drunk off his bunghole after downing the flask.
“If you die, I become as nothing; in you we have our life and our deaths.”
Relax dude, Jeez, it’s just a game, I said, but thought
“How can I live until he comes?”
“The service cart was crying”
But I was too busy listening for the wails of my poor, abandoned shoebox to care for someone else’s lost life.
“I thought he might be somebody”
But after all that’s happened I’m not so sure anymore.
Is a very true sentiment when I’m on the roof screaming.
“I found a shoebox that I keep things in”
But unfortunately I lost it again. It’s a real shame too; I liked those photos.
“He eyed the flask nervously”,
He knew how these nights tend to end.
“What does it matter what fools call him?”
Well no one likes being called a doo-doo head, so there’s that.
“The wicked part of a war is its beginning”
Said my grandfather but I still don’t understand what’s so sick about war, I mean, people die.
“Do you remember anything?”
No, only that I really miss that damn shoebox.
“Be prepared to appreciate what you meet”
She said on my first day as a Walmart greeter, and dear lord I was not prepared.
“Why may not imagination trace the noble dust of Alexander till he find it stopping a bunghole?”
He shouted at me. I didn’t have an answer as he was standing on the roof, drunk off his bunghole after downing the flask.
“If you die, I become as nothing; in you we have our life and our deaths.”
Relax dude, Jeez, it’s just a game, I said, but thought
“How can I live until he comes?”
“The service cart was crying”
But I was too busy listening for the wails of my poor, abandoned shoebox to care for someone else’s lost life.
“I thought he might be somebody”
But after all that’s happened I’m not so sure anymore.
5am's Comforts
Silence
but, it’s not really silence,
A pseudo- silence filled with the sounds of a city on the verge of waking up,
the dull thrum of life that can never be heard but can always be felt as a sound just beyond
our ears.
Darkness
but it’s not really dark,
The Sun, making its way towards the horizon sends out questing rays of light that illuminate the
underside of the dawn,
Basking the world in a mixture of the glows of street lamps, grey clouds, and the early bird’s
headlights.
Cool
but is it really cool?
The refreshing breeze blows in through the open window, kissing your skin and adding a slight
chill,
Counteracting the heat and comfort provided by the quilt and removing the slightly feverish quality
from the room.
Comfort
but can it really be called comfort?
The warm, snug feeling of the quilt as you wrap it ever tighter around your self,
The cool, chilly kiss of the breeze as the two combine like Yin and Yang,
The darkness, providing all with anonymity and uniformity,
The not-so-dark glow of the world’s light, working to assign individuals,
The silence, sweet, sweet, music to my weary ears,
The thrum of life, though ever present, most cannot hear it for they do not try,
These are the comforts of 5am, they make my soul sing and make me ask for another five minutes
to lie there, wrapped in my blankets, allowed to listen to the silence for just a
moment more.
but, it’s not really silence,
A pseudo- silence filled with the sounds of a city on the verge of waking up,
the dull thrum of life that can never be heard but can always be felt as a sound just beyond
our ears.
Darkness
but it’s not really dark,
The Sun, making its way towards the horizon sends out questing rays of light that illuminate the
underside of the dawn,
Basking the world in a mixture of the glows of street lamps, grey clouds, and the early bird’s
headlights.
Cool
but is it really cool?
The refreshing breeze blows in through the open window, kissing your skin and adding a slight
chill,
Counteracting the heat and comfort provided by the quilt and removing the slightly feverish quality
from the room.
Comfort
but can it really be called comfort?
The warm, snug feeling of the quilt as you wrap it ever tighter around your self,
The cool, chilly kiss of the breeze as the two combine like Yin and Yang,
The darkness, providing all with anonymity and uniformity,
The not-so-dark glow of the world’s light, working to assign individuals,
The silence, sweet, sweet, music to my weary ears,
The thrum of life, though ever present, most cannot hear it for they do not try,
These are the comforts of 5am, they make my soul sing and make me ask for another five minutes
to lie there, wrapped in my blankets, allowed to listen to the silence for just a
moment more.
Blue Ridge Mountains
As the car drives on I look up at the sky, the clear and chilly November sky. It’s blue from horizon to horizon with barely a cloud to break it. I follow the wash of blue from the dome of the sky to the edge and find what I’ve been looking for the entire trip, a bumpy smudge in the distance.
I fall asleep, my neck bent at an uncomfortable angle, and wake up again a few hours later. I look back at the sky and see a change, the light is fading. The sun, at its apex earlier, has now drifted to a midpoint and continues to sink. The sky has been split, one half the same pale blue, the other a white that extends to the smudge. The smudge is more defined now though, as opposed to a possible cloud bank it has revealed itself to be a wall of mountains. They are still pretty indistinct from here but one thing is clear: they are blue.
I keep myself occupied for another half of an hour when I look back up. Again the sky is radically different. Instead of a half-and-half look, it is so much more beautiful. The dome of the sky is blue, a much darker blue, a blue with a bit of personality, with some backbone. Following the sky I find the sun and feel awash in warmth as though a fire has been lit in a snow drift. Just above the horizon it sits, and around it the clouds seem to have gathered as children to cocoa and have gained a golden blaze. They seem to be gold, pure and new, never before has a hammer touched these bundles of beauty, nor has anvil or forge. This is a gold for the gods, a gold rarely seen by man, a gold that simply cannot exist underground. As my eyes wander from the sight I gaze upon the mountains and breathe deeply. They are so much closer now and one can see that they are not new. They are old and worn, comfortable with the land they encompass, no longer big on fighting the land or humans for supremacy they have a soothing effect. As they come closer and their brethren pass by, it feels as though the earth has embraced me, as though Mother Gaia has decided that of all her children, we are worthy of a hug. Against the backdrop of fiery gold surrounded by deepening blue, they stand stark, a blue of a different shade, blue that knows what it is and has been it for so many millennia that it could care less what the sky does.
When later comes around and the sun is below the horizon, the last few rays make the clouds seem like fading gold leaf, once beautiful but not the true thing, flaking and falling off. Above the clouds the sky has darkened to a deep blue that seems almost purple, a blue that reminds mankind of its stay on this planet, of the power of Father Winter, of the sheer might of the cold and the inky nothingness that is space. But at the horizon lies a comfort, those mountains colored blue. I stare at them and watch as the dripping gold gradually fades and the world is plunged into darkness. Even in the dark, when the world is pitch black, the mountains are still blue.
As we pull into the house I spent my childhood in I walk outside and take a deep breath, filling my lungs with the blue air, and upon opening them again, my eyes look towards the mountains and are filled with blue, and for a few fleeting moments that could last for hours, everything is blue.
I fall asleep, my neck bent at an uncomfortable angle, and wake up again a few hours later. I look back at the sky and see a change, the light is fading. The sun, at its apex earlier, has now drifted to a midpoint and continues to sink. The sky has been split, one half the same pale blue, the other a white that extends to the smudge. The smudge is more defined now though, as opposed to a possible cloud bank it has revealed itself to be a wall of mountains. They are still pretty indistinct from here but one thing is clear: they are blue.
I keep myself occupied for another half of an hour when I look back up. Again the sky is radically different. Instead of a half-and-half look, it is so much more beautiful. The dome of the sky is blue, a much darker blue, a blue with a bit of personality, with some backbone. Following the sky I find the sun and feel awash in warmth as though a fire has been lit in a snow drift. Just above the horizon it sits, and around it the clouds seem to have gathered as children to cocoa and have gained a golden blaze. They seem to be gold, pure and new, never before has a hammer touched these bundles of beauty, nor has anvil or forge. This is a gold for the gods, a gold rarely seen by man, a gold that simply cannot exist underground. As my eyes wander from the sight I gaze upon the mountains and breathe deeply. They are so much closer now and one can see that they are not new. They are old and worn, comfortable with the land they encompass, no longer big on fighting the land or humans for supremacy they have a soothing effect. As they come closer and their brethren pass by, it feels as though the earth has embraced me, as though Mother Gaia has decided that of all her children, we are worthy of a hug. Against the backdrop of fiery gold surrounded by deepening blue, they stand stark, a blue of a different shade, blue that knows what it is and has been it for so many millennia that it could care less what the sky does.
When later comes around and the sun is below the horizon, the last few rays make the clouds seem like fading gold leaf, once beautiful but not the true thing, flaking and falling off. Above the clouds the sky has darkened to a deep blue that seems almost purple, a blue that reminds mankind of its stay on this planet, of the power of Father Winter, of the sheer might of the cold and the inky nothingness that is space. But at the horizon lies a comfort, those mountains colored blue. I stare at them and watch as the dripping gold gradually fades and the world is plunged into darkness. Even in the dark, when the world is pitch black, the mountains are still blue.
As we pull into the house I spent my childhood in I walk outside and take a deep breath, filling my lungs with the blue air, and upon opening them again, my eyes look towards the mountains and are filled with blue, and for a few fleeting moments that could last for hours, everything is blue.
Ok, I think that's enough for now. If any body has any comments, be they opinions, recommendations, edits, what have you, feel more than free to tell me. I'm always looking for feed back
