(no subject)
Greece is burning.
Chicago is rainravaged and largely lightless.
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I spent last night in a powerless studio in Roscoe Village, writing songs by candlelight and sitting out on a tiny stone balcony while the sky went from grey to green grey to deep blue to pale green to brown blue to grey brown to the evening pink of Chicago light pollution. Dished on coworkers, drinking rum and coke out of coffee mugs.
"You like that mug? Everyone at the office bought me that. They bought me a set of fucking dishes once. They all kind of know my situation. What a good family, right?"
"I wonder if they all went together to pick out the pattern. 'What do you think Steve would like more, the red stripe or the floral...?' I would like to see that."
"It's a good stripe." Steve smoked. Sky changed. The uprooted fifty foot oak across the street rested between houses, stubborn. "Your shoulders are hot in the moonlight."
"That's not moonlight, Steve. That's pink... light."
"Whatever." Steve smoked.