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the most perfect days
Coming from a rather pessimistic author, the day is perfect.
‘Perfect’, a critical reader might drawl, ‘What exactly do you mean by perfect?’
Why, everything and nothing.
Perfect as in everything;
the sickly grey of the city is gone, replaced by a sense of living, of being alive, of breathing. The city no longer lies precariously on the edge of its sickbed, tied to strings and tubes so tangled even the doctors have forgotten their purpose. No, the city is out, and the city is alive - its lungs expanding and contracting with the gentle gusts of drifting wind, its eyes wide open with a Yellow Ochre that crinkles ever so slightly in a smile.
People so often say that the eyes of the city are shaded, covered harshly by a cloak of cold metal; but today, oh; today the eyes are anything but. It is a smile that encompasses all the knobby cinders of skyscrapers and returns them as metallic birds suspended in take-off, a smile that hugs individuals in a kind of invisible restfulness unfelt in a while. It is a smile that brings inexplicable laughter, a smile that induces easy slumber.
The city is alive as it had not been before. Music flows from the steps of a passer-by’s, from the cool rush of the six o’clock madness, from swinging doors and cleared curtains. The air itself is different; as if the permanent translucency has lifted, giving way for a fresher, newer kind of Almond Green. If rain happens to drizzle in at seven, no one complains, and the rhythmic pitter-patter only adds a beat to the shear sprightliness of the city.
Perfect as in nothing;
the alarm clock has given itself over to the smoothing gaze of the awakened city and eight o’clock finds Ryuu sprawled across the mattress without a care in the world. Eight fifteen finds him screaming at his reflection in the mirror.
He’s late.
The day is, for lack of a better word, perfect.
Coming from a rather pessimistic author, the day is perfect.
‘Perfect’, a critical reader might drawl, ‘What exactly do you mean by perfect?’
Why, everything and nothing.
Perfect as in everything;
the sickly grey of the city is gone, replaced by a sense of living, of being alive, of breathing. The city no longer lies precariously on the edge of its sickbed, tied to strings and tubes so tangled even the doctors have forgotten their purpose. No, the city is out, and the city is alive - its lungs expanding and contracting with the gentle gusts of drifting wind, its eyes wide open with a Yellow Ochre that crinkles ever so slightly in a smile.
People so often say that the eyes of the city are shaded, covered harshly by a cloak of cold metal; but today, oh; today the eyes are anything but. It is a smile that encompasses all the knobby cinders of skyscrapers and returns them as metallic birds suspended in take-off, a smile that hugs individuals in a kind of invisible restfulness unfelt in a while. It is a smile that brings inexplicable laughter, a smile that induces easy slumber.
The city is alive as it had not been before. Music flows from the steps of a passer-by’s, from the cool rush of the six o’clock madness, from swinging doors and cleared curtains. The air itself is different; as if the permanent translucency has lifted, giving way for a fresher, newer kind of Almond Green. If rain happens to drizzle in at seven, no one complains, and the rhythmic pitter-patter only adds a beat to the shear sprightliness of the city.
Perfect as in nothing;
the alarm clock has given itself over to the smoothing gaze of the awakened city and eight o’clock finds Ryuu sprawled across the mattress without a care in the world. Eight fifteen finds him screaming at his reflection in the mirror.
He’s late.
The day is, for lack of a better word, perfect.
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