W.N.

Whoever complains about the world’s overcrowdance has never lived during a suburban midnight. Such a desolation reflects bits of the utopia it’s desperate to be in the daylight. It’s a cliché drowning in fresh, moonlit ambiance where the only witness to the concrete ethereality is the eerie, peach-colored light pollution.

I’m in the business of past burying. Growth is as important to me as breathing and a clean slate is the stuff of dreams. But I feel a little like a cartoon character running like mad with my shirttail nailed to the floorboards.

My town has been isolated in a steady downpour for days. In a way it’s comforting to be wrapped in something more melancholic than ourselves, but there’s a certain crushing weight in the blank gray of the sky. Like it’s a film, severing us all from life’s vibrancy. I sat in my car today at the beginning of a rush hour. My homeostatic body created fog on the windows as the world outside filled halfway to breaking point with moisture. You can’t ignore that grimy, hair-curling thickness in the air, it’s got a way of clinging.