Sunday, June 30, 2019


At sunset everything turns pink; the city, the string of clouds running unevenly over the horizon, and the river itself. The brown Mississippi is lurid pink, trees, the city of skyscrapers is shimmering pink, sky, the clouds are just... pink. I lean up against my windows. A giant mote of cottonwood fluff floats right, then it floats left, then it drops straight down.

It's all too pretty. 

It may be a trick.

"Just try and distrust miracles." It challenges.

And then night comes before I can manage it.

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