There is no snow. The streets are dusty, dirt encrusted. The sky is that kind of heavy grey which is only fit for a Cormac McCarthy picnic. All the garbage so nicely illuminated. Everyone keeps talking about how warm it is but the wind is grim and insistent and the effect is like standing directly beneath a gigantic bridge. On the radio they talked to a Canadian parachutist who crash landed somewhere in the States; his hospital bill is enormous and he has no insurance.
It's just one of those things, he said.
I never thought it would happen to me. The forecast calls first for snow and then deep cold coming in.
There is no snow. The streets are dusty, dirt encrusted. The sky is that kind of heavy grey which is only fit for a Cormac McCarthy picnic. All the garbage so nicely illuminated. Everyone keeps talking about how warm it is but the wind is grim and insistent and the effect is like standing directly beneath a gigantic bridge. On the radio they talked to a Canadian parachutist who crash landed somewhere in the States; his hospital bill is enormous and he has no insurance. It's just one of those things, he said. I never thought it would happen to me. The forecast calls first for snow and then deep cold coming in.
The title of this post implied a much juicier confession.
ReplyDeleteI never thought it would happen to him either...?!
ReplyDeleteChilly
ReplyDeleteHahhahaha! Yes, it does seem like the title some juicy pulp fiction. Glad you got a reprieve from the snow. I love your ink drawing of your coat.
ReplyDeleteI can't imagine Cormac McCarthy at a picnic.
ReplyDelete