There's a playground near our house.
It's surprisingly well-lit at night; between the street lamps and the full moon, you can see individual bits of tanbark and the rust on the slide and everything. Admittedly, if you're me, you have to squint, because you neglected to bring your lovely new glasses with you (although my night vision is quite good, for some reason, perhaps because definition doesn't matter so much as general perception). Nevertheless.
Doesn't really matter, anyway, when you're on the swing-set trying to get the hang of the legs out, legs in thing, which I have never quite grasped. It was pretty and bright and I can always put the blur down to speed - wishful thinking, maybe, but well enough - and what more is there to ask for? Oh, and I learned a lot about the inner workings of YouTube, thanks to my mother, who tends to ramble when out doing vaguely physical activities with me. =D
And I came home to the MASSIVE BOOKSHELF that now takes up the majority of the eyespace in my room and is awesome and contains a couple hundred books. (Me, obsessively count them? Surely not).
All in all a pleasant evening, charming mathematical problems and subsequent argument aside.
Also, original writing:
all_unwritten :
It comes in colors subtle and strange; in hints of red like morning-after lipstick and blue astonishing but also gone as soon as one turns to look; in golds and mud slithering around the corner of the current; in inky darkness, mostly, that which is not a color at all (except it is, where the grey light skims its scummy surface). Translucent, transparent, the textbooks say, but this is a thing not entirely water, and there will be no penetrating of its thick choking depths.
Flood, they whisper, the men who blacken the earth, collected as they are upon the hillsides, shoulder to shoulder, back to back, faces turned downwards and wondering for the first time. Eyes that ought to be looking for God among the clouds or familiarity among the cobblestones see only murky, unfamiliar waves lapping at boot-heels; lips that might otherwise have sought proper, ridiculous rhetoric to give their little worlds little, vibrant souls are plastered over instead with fear, that conquerer of all that makes them human (or all that they think makes them human, anyway). The sea approaches, the rain approaches; Earth casts off its cloaking earth, and the globe falls away, and the two firmaments are as one, for forty days and forty nights, and - and -
- and there is no Ark, because this is not a punishment, but a reward. Freedom, cold and waiting. The pale bloated bodies know. There is no Ark to save you, child. There is no Ark.
There is only: sky and sea and deaths that linger in betwixt and between.
Shh, now. Shh.
Doesn't really matter, anyway, when you're on the swing-set trying to get the hang of the legs out, legs in thing, which I have never quite grasped. It was pretty and bright and I can always put the blur down to speed - wishful thinking, maybe, but well enough - and what more is there to ask for? Oh, and I learned a lot about the inner workings of YouTube, thanks to my mother, who tends to ramble when out doing vaguely physical activities with me. =D
And I came home to the MASSIVE BOOKSHELF that now takes up the majority of the eyespace in my room and is awesome and contains a couple hundred books. (Me, obsessively count them? Surely not).
All in all a pleasant evening, charming mathematical problems and subsequent argument aside.
Also, original writing:
all_unwritten :
It comes in colors subtle and strange; in hints of red like morning-after lipstick and blue astonishing but also gone as soon as one turns to look; in golds and mud slithering around the corner of the current; in inky darkness, mostly, that which is not a color at all (except it is, where the grey light skims its scummy surface). Translucent, transparent, the textbooks say, but this is a thing not entirely water, and there will be no penetrating of its thick choking depths.
Flood, they whisper, the men who blacken the earth, collected as they are upon the hillsides, shoulder to shoulder, back to back, faces turned downwards and wondering for the first time. Eyes that ought to be looking for God among the clouds or familiarity among the cobblestones see only murky, unfamiliar waves lapping at boot-heels; lips that might otherwise have sought proper, ridiculous rhetoric to give their little worlds little, vibrant souls are plastered over instead with fear, that conquerer of all that makes them human (or all that they think makes them human, anyway). The sea approaches, the rain approaches; Earth casts off its cloaking earth, and the globe falls away, and the two firmaments are as one, for forty days and forty nights, and - and -
- and there is no Ark, because this is not a punishment, but a reward. Freedom, cold and waiting. The pale bloated bodies know. There is no Ark to save you, child. There is no Ark.
There is only: sky and sea and deaths that linger in betwixt and between.
Shh, now. Shh.