It's American Gothic windblown utopia outside, you know? Crisp with Autumnal virtue the wind rushes you with a fresh cold that thrills your soul awake and alive. You ask yourself, "What is this life that I have built around myself? Where is that road I once walked with purpose? What warm, sleepy winds have blown me here, off course? Who is this woman, this man I have become?" High overhead roiling dark patches of migrating birds south themselves, making themselves southerly, as they always do sometimes, only to renorth in the Spring. Some flocks stretch from horizon to horizon, like a milky way of flapping instinct. "Sometimes," they call out to you, "there is no here. There is only there." The sky is impossibly blue, Sky Blue, and the clouds scoot quickly to wherever the wind tells them to go. Somewhere in the world there is no homeland. There are no people. Somewhere animals settle in for long sleep. Far to the south spring is giving way to summer. Here we don scarves and imagine a universe like here. American Gothic windblown utopia stretches on forever in the wide expanses of our narrow, hopeful minds.
Some stories are magical, meant to be sung.
Hello, friends. How are you today?
Later. Love.
