It’s a Sigur Ros kind of day. A watch-the-sky-through-your-eyelashes kind of day. A slow drumbeat, far-flung wind kind of day. The kind of day where you look for the sun, but the sky is so solid, blinding white that you’re positive the sun must have never existed. The kind of day where everything is sleepy, the birds are reverently quiet, the traffic hums lazily, the trees barely breathe. One of those hollow, concave days that echo in your head and make you feel like you’re underwater, trying to float to the top; but you’re upside down and wrong-side up and you can’t see anything or hear anthing but your own clamoring existence in all that infinite, hopeless water. You’re waiting for a current, another creature, something to remind you you’re alive and more than an ephermal flicker of light in an unbounded darkness. And so you wait in the water, oblivious as to which way is up and which way is out.
