Lush gray morning. Curtains drawn. Rain-soaked leaves shiver.
An alarm coughs, spits out a tune and sighs.
Was that a knock?
It's too early. Must be the trees.
Dreams belong to a vaulted soldier. Is there really no more medicine?
There it is again.
Hello. Who is it?
A friend, if you will. But it's raining hard.
Come in, you must be soaked.
Dreams belong to a vaulted soldier? Where did I hear that.
The season dances again. Every damn year.
I'm sorry but I don't mean any bother.
It's raining today. I understand.
Did you like it?
Music that was playing this morning. Hell, it's been playing for days.
Outside. You didn't hear it? It was loud as a war-cry.
Dreams belong to a vaulted soldier.
Nursery rhymes in minor keys. Hospital bills. Keys without names hanging by fragile threads on mantle-pieces of last autumn. Callused strings. Broken fingers.
The coffee-machine broke. Water?
Sure, why not. Water's good.
A mild shower. Silent after-party of gloomy clouds. Should we walk?
The wet smell of a soaked earth. I can hear it now. My god, it IS loud. But it's nice. Like an orange sky.
That's more like it. Can you see it too?
A story perhaps.
Sure. There are stories everywhere.
Lush gray bursting heavy gloomy shining smiling glazed afternoons. A walk too long.
A bald patch of land.
A purple afterglow.
Dead silent air, a faint scent of musk. Late evening rising in the east.
Words form in vapor trails. Conversations hang making rings in deep green trees.
Why didn't you come in earlier? You were soaked when you got in.
You didn't open the door.