The wind tugs at the clouds, heaving them, seemingly inch by inch. Sunlight is screened, then it’s not, then it is, then it’s not… Clouds are hauled, warmth interupted. The sky drags on. An eternal conveyance. The sun, a sushi dish that never quite arrives.
People love parks. I don’t. They’re uncomfortable and vapid. Their allure mythic and specious. I want to be somewhere else. Watching a film. On a plane. Somewhere I can make out my laptop screen. Somewhere that doesn’t poke me with wirey grass. Somewhere my bottle of orange juice won’t get warm. Anywhere.