Fruit-loopian rain falls - drop by priceless drop - and tastes like the cinders hiding behind my eyes - the burning, burning, and then the singeing hiss of relief. Sidewalks echo beneath a mid-summer sky, which could have been mid-winter if it weren't for this weather. Day-old spiderwebs and day-old memories cling to the lids of the street lamps, the lids of the light. And sky surges as the sea surges, swelling ever down and and ever up. Ukulele strings, quick like hopskotch and insinuating like luck's laughter, perversely shoot rainbows at the unbelieving heavens that glower like a dead dawn.
Here, walking down the center of a street too small for a yellow dashed line and breathing in the coming night as if I'm singing backwards - taking in the song like air - here, I am. Dream on, drunken deluge of days-end. This is your time.
