★★★★ The children had half-raised the blinds, letting in the copious morning light. The high clouds were a fluctuating filter. There was a little haze, a little breeze. The sun was warm enough to gently cook the abandoned beer and Rioja bottles on the roof, coating their insides with fat droplets. The remains in the glasses were clumping and separating. In the bright sky over the shadowed afternoon streets, a perfect dab of cirrus decorated the zenith. There was a bold streak of cirrus leading away from it, and a charmingly lit and shaded airplane flying medium-low, but nothing beat that one spot of white, precisely overhead. It was weird, it had to be weird, to keep craning to look at it. Yet there it was, just exactly so, the momentary pivot of the whole composition.
Tuesday, October 15th, 2013