The light drifts through, feeling like innocence, feeling like a child stepping carefree into the street. The wind bit and caught, granting debris the power of flight, setting every tree to dance. The tension in the sky somehow imbues this dry dead flesh with the stripped down version of some callow song. Hot and cold, vivid colors and such a funerary dullness. The people are always wandering away. No wonder we lose so many tribes.
The walls are sticky with slow clotting shadows, the day lingering on the cusp of the dusk. The sky boils with clouds and rain. The web holds the corner of the doorway, spider long since gone. The rooms smell of coffee and cooking, that clinging taste of habitation. The dusty lamps glower even as the day abides, lit as if in remembrance or distress. Some signal sent to a lost agent. Some vigil kept, coveting the names of the dead.
It is always about the weather. It is always about the borders and the tides. The traffic or the crime spree. Some stranger's failure to keep an oath, the promise of better things just beneath each breath. The streets grind and tangle, cars full of vacancy spilling fumes. The tension in the flesh always painting the scenery. Bright blues and blood reds. A gentle whisper vaguely saying goodbye.