Every time it rains

Got into work early, before 8 a.m., to escape the storms. Thunder and lightning inside and out. I thought it would clear the air when it broke, but underneath the clouds there's only more clouds. Wet hair from the rain, and just a dull ache from everything else.

I hate this town, these fields; this flatness, and a heavy horizonless sky that comes smothering down like a blanket of gas, like a burden of guilt. There's nothing here but dark nights and dull mornings, and a wall-eyed greyness like water-bleached bones inbetween. Out there in the half-light nameless faces are farming emptiness, treading the soil until the shadows come tearing up through the cracks. Words do not survive for long in this atmosphere; they emerge as grudgingly as teeth through iron gums, and once they have torn out a reluctant hole in the air they rust and decay, scarring and hardening into silent hurt.

I hate every ragged fragment of it, and it does not notice, and I would hate that most of all if I had the will to do so.

Read on

I caught this literature quiz from k425...

( holy crit )

Incidentally, they've misquoted one Shakespeare play ("... such stuff as dreams are made on," please) and misnamed another ("The Winter's Tale" is the play, "A Winter's Tale" is a song by Queen, for heaven's sake). Not that I have nothing better to do than exercise pointless pedantry, or anything.

Careful with those tracks

In reponse to a request from vinaigrettegirl to write about footprints.

*

( footprints )