What a dismal morning...

Hmph. Mornings like this remind me of a certain fateful morning I spent on my front steps, waiting for the bus. I would assume that since I was waiting on my front steps, I was going to Breck at the time. I'm not sure if that's actually the case. I think I was going to Park. Maybe. I don't know.

Ah yes, but that morning. It had just been raining very heavily, but it had tapered off, leaving everything soaking wet, yet vibrantly clear to the eye. Nothing was dusty or faded. The world was like a shell freshly unearthed from the damp sand. A blanket of clouds still lay in the sky, but they didn't hinder visibility, they seemed to glow.

In my mind, I saw them walking. Or, rather, marching. At a snail's pace they marched, their tattered uniforms flapping against whitewashed bones. The skeleton march. They played a slow tune in a minor key, that started with low and breathy horns, pinches of snare drum, and perhaps an out of tune flamenco guitar.

I watched them blow into horns with their nonexistent lungs, as their feet clacked on the wet asphalt. I was entranced by this vision, overjoyed. It was beautiful. I wanted to march with them forever.

Then the bus came. But I still just have to hum a bit of the tune to be back to that morning.

Sigh, I'm odd.