Cursive Handwriting Does Not Mean What I Think It means

Listening to You Can't by Smoke Fairies.

A day with all days

Smoke moves slowly across this city today and the rush of blood and traffic scrapes the veins and kerbs, turning all activity to noise without content or meaning. Sitting alone in a big field I can hear that noise but I think it means nothing to me, just a roar like the echo of the whole city in a shell at my ear. My ears are red with cold, the character-forming weather of all remembered winters, pushing me to the edge of tears and tantrums. But now distracted by a small movement in my eye line, a bird at the wall, darting and flitting between it's meagre winter meals, I am happy again, back into the safe-zone of all small children, missing the depth of what our parents think is serious and important. I could have stayed here for years, happy at the green field stretching away to the limit of sight, to where the distance merges with the misty fade-in, and the limit of my interest. I can catch a strong will filling me on those days, like something being poured into me through all my senses. All that music, all those words, the poems between adults in the blur of time, seeping in to the gaps in my head.

Outside it is stormy, but in this room, all I see is grey-light of thunder and lightning, the smashing of giant things to frighten us into irrational fears. It is irony with only one end that someone dies being struck on days like these, for the risk is low. The human is a miracle, a conscious thing built up from nothing, a decrease in entropy so extraordinary that it turns half the world against the other half in arguments about how it could possibly happen. All this does is postpone the ultimate reckoning, the day the creator settles up his balances with love and hope; where he finds no one for his appeal.