It has been many weeks since we've seen the rain. The sky so clear day after day after day that we forget what the clouds look like, and begin to doubt the truth of their existence, the way we've all forgotten loved ones who have, in one way or another, departed.
We greet the storm with dry eyes. To witness something catastrophic; anything to relieve the dreaded sameness of our days, we beg that sky. From TV we know tragedy as boredom's balm. Oh the upheavals we dream! The great wealth of damage! The demented pleasure of despair! Peel away from the bellies of the clouds, and pummel us with your electric fury!
Not a single drop lets go. The mirages evaporate. And we remain just as we've always been, nothing reformed, nothing revived, nothing retained.
It has been many weeks since we've seen the rain. The sky so clear day after day after day that we forget what the clouds look like, and begin to doubt the truth of their existence, the way we've all forgotten loved ones who have, in one way or another, departed.
We greet the storm with dry eyes. To witness something catastrophic; anything to relieve the dreaded sameness of our days, we beg that sky. From TV we know tragedy as boredom's balm. Oh the upheavals we dream! The great wealth of damage! The demented pleasure of despair! Peel away from the bellies of the clouds, and pummel us with your electric fury!
Not a single drop lets go. The mirages evaporate. And we remain just as we've always been, nothing reformed, nothing revived, nothing retained.
It has been many weeks since we've seen the rain. The sky so clear day after day after day that we forget what the clouds look like, and begin to doubt the truth of their existence, the way we've all forgotten loved ones who have, in one way or another, departed.
Matt Turner, cello
Tad Neuhaus, guitar
Joanna Dane, harmonica
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