The sky was the color of sirens, or maybe it was the color of a trumpet's wail. A certain crucial blue that always seems upon the verge of some great change. A prophetic hue speaking to just that perfectly honed portion of soul, that margin where every mistake is made. Painted by this collision of spectra and inference, the sky seeming to be saying something, just to you. The conclusions are varied, but all land in the sharp fragments of the meaning of your name.
So many ways of knowing, you think you have them all figured. The earth's bounty, the providence of heaven. That better blooming that arises from all manner of disaster. These gifts of lemons, limited to that potion of added sugar and water. Tricks of definition, tricks of release, the treats you adorn with this placid thinking. It is only natural, this magic. You are bound to be resigned. It may as well be towards the best of all possibilities.
Preference takes its toll, this likening of the wisdom of creation to your toiling tastes. Settling upon this sediment, you ignore the source of the stream. Loving this silt, you forsake that long cool drink. Natural is no nobility, and invention is not all blessing. The best we manage are our over corrections, careening into the mountain instead of hurdling off the bridge. The world is as it was though it changes. The sky the color of whatever atoms are prevalent just at that bandwidth of light. Your life some preposterous story, written and amended as you go. Your mood the cloak creation wears while you watch the prophecies dissolve.
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