chasing details in this most nostalgic air of earthly time; all is an illuminated grey, all is mute but of the kind that makes the mind colour in the rest. winter snuck in too quickly while i was turned away, too easy now that time and space are all scattered. freedom tastes bright, blinding in a way that makes the eyes light up so you can see to the depth of them; freedom used to feel bigger, and the small pieces explode in a silent, slow blur. the moments smell slightly old, like they were worn before, and are home to foxes and llamas hiding in the bushes. in the mist, the angels still pray alone, but now with seeking, outstretched arms, hugged only by the cool richness of the heavy, yellow-tinted air around them, while scenes and places dash by too quickly for them to grasp.
