As if it were common occurance, the sky turned from sheet-like SFX to yawning millions.
The pessimism of night turned into an orange optimism, laden with pink thoughts and red hope undertones.
The silence fell and as if by magic turned us from our positions, threw us from our soft-palettes into hardened balance. The squeaks of slumber become steam-trains and slippered foot-steps.
Rushing aimlessness and laughing quarters.
Today brought a tickle, lack the bubble-pot cauldron her throat once was.
Mud pool skies observe.
Blues omitting disapproval.