Three-hundred days of incubation.Words were spoken, with no translation.Mental experimentation.Nights of manifestations.Sanity kept with journal notations.The world is silent, with no explanation.
Saturday morning coffeethe sun doesn’t rise at 4:45.I can hardly open my eyes.There’s a full moon in the skyit’s the only light that shines.
It was cold and windy. Celebration a distant memory. The day felt hollow and empty.
It has not rained for months.Yet, we feel the weight of precipitation.The sky is unrecognizable.We can’t weather a lengthy depression.