The moon seemed hampered by a scrim of cloud all done in matte, the subdued light not matching the cold urgency of my walk home.
After the warm embrace of evening had comforted me a while, I felt called to check on any progress the clouds or moon might have made.
Bare branched trees had etched a new layer onto the foreground of this strange January painting but looking out, I felt clarity might still be mine. Throwing open the door, ripples of heat rushed past performing a dance of bending light before disappearing, liberated. The moon glowed but awkwardly still.
I cannot think figure if the music for moments of odd light should sound warm, cold or not at all like music.
Reader's Diary #1985- Luke W. Molver: Shaka Rising
14 hours ago