Y sings ballads, his voice travels a considerable distance, a slowly cooling air, the snare drum reverberates under it. He is proud. I can tell by his volume. Then suddenly, his voice stopas and a clutter of speaking voices stuccato through the void, only to fade silent as well.
It wants to be winter, today, but something is preventing it, latitude, proximity, forces unseen but always known, ever experienced.
I am comfortable in the contradictions, comfortable in duplicity.
"Hush," my mind tells me, for it knows these are things insolvable, tihings better not to revel about. But Lord knows, one has to think, contemplate something beyond self, office and manmade sorts of things.
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