summer dathun

There are thunderstorms here with names you couldn’t pronounce if you tried. You walk, and you feel like things might be much bigger than you thought, than you were allowed to think they were. And you could swear those flowers weren’t there before. They’ve become like the man on the train you didn’t notice until he began audibly weeping. And so you weep with them. And you weep with the thunderstorms. There’s a language here that none of us know how to speak. There are songs with pitches we can’t reach, and the sky never gets tired of putting on magic shows to lure us from our sleep.