The scent of paint heavy in the air, choking like the dst that choked the canary years and years ago until he fell down. Ashes, ashes.
Sitting here while my aunt paints the inside of her garage because there's wireless connections to piggyback on everywhere, puting away the bins of shoes that will never be worn because her grand daughter's growing up and her husband can't change his shoes when he's scattered across the lake. Ashes, ashes.
Cool air blows in through the open doors and carries with it the sound of gulls over head and cars going by and the smell of freshly fallen rain and smoke. Ashes, ashes.
The step digging into my back and the cold cement seeping through my socks. Late morning/early afternoon sunlight drifting in. The air feels like automn. The leaves are all falling off the trees and the geese are flying south. Of course their geese, not gulls. What the hell am I thinking? The muscles in my shoulders ache from sitting here and from horseback riding three times this week and it's supposed to be a good sort of ache, that's what all the books says but it's just a pain, it just hurts in that way that I've gotten too used to too fast; too much time calculating physics equations in the last week. A Tori song stuck in my head. Thoughts of dreams and conversations and journal entries that are filtered from everyone that knows me and stories and articles and it's all so clinicle but I can't see the forest for the trees. But that's ok. The forest is burning down, anyway.
Ashes, ashes.