Taste It

There's snow on the lake, the skies behind are dark, gray, ominous. It looks like a painting. The train gathers speed and we pass a school yard, where tweenie children play soccer and shove each other in the snow. Childhood is such a cruel scene. We roll through half-dead towns where people still make their lives, and the angst of the small town claws at my insides, how do they keep themselves from laying their heads in the oven?

She texts me from another train, says I'm almost there. Says tomorrow we are in Paris. The beauty of mad adventures caresses my eyelids, the straitjacket around my chest releases. Tomorrow the world will look different. Tomorrow we paint the sky with life.