Snow is a story about you always being wrong, whoever and wherever you are. It is in the air this morning like a haze. Like a hundred thousand tiny gods descending lazily to the earth. It is something born of atmosphere and delivered to the world by the world.
Snow is a fuck yeah, decimated by atmospheric pressure, and distributed to the earth, a leaflet shredded many many times.
It is coming down this morning. It is likely to cover us. Or maybe it is waning even as I have come across it. Willard, will it accumulate. Willard, will it cover the abandoned couches left on the curb by college neighbors? Already their striped form has grown a glaze of it.
Grass blades have accepted dust, hairspray, and are spiking up and frosted. I saw this effect this week at the store where a hundred brands compete for my affection. I fear that my hair is going, and I fear that I need product to stock up against it, a charm against secession.
If I could be covered in it this year almost all the time I might be happy then.
No comments:
Post a Comment