what kind of night makes for contemplation?
I haven't been keeping up with the memories, but I was struck by one suddenly while listening to Kate Walsh on the guitar:
It was late at night, a Friday into early spring. We were on the ground by the walkway, across the tiles leading through the doors white and lined with ivy. You were lying on the slabs of rock and I was cold, thinking about the wisps of cloud suspended high above, making shapes with my eyes like using an invisible hand. People walked up and down and the trees loomed. Beyond them were fireworks, sounding into air. I couldn't see them proper; they sprouted into the sky like unfinished dabbles past the trees. Shadows masked everything like burglars, and I was stealing a picture of the evening, glad that we were friends, if only for a while.
It was late at night, a Friday into early spring. We were on the ground by the walkway, across the tiles leading through the doors white and lined with ivy. You were lying on the slabs of rock and I was cold, thinking about the wisps of cloud suspended high above, making shapes with my eyes like using an invisible hand. People walked up and down and the trees loomed. Beyond them were fireworks, sounding into air. I couldn't see them proper; they sprouted into the sky like unfinished dabbles past the trees. Shadows masked everything like burglars, and I was stealing a picture of the evening, glad that we were friends, if only for a while.