grayscaled.

late afternoon winds down to an almost creeping pace as i sit in a whirly-minded stupor with a book. feet propped up on one of the window sills behind me, i lean back in my chair and drift into the colorfully mysterious worlds of haruki murakami. solmn, dark, yet beautifully painted with intricate details of sight, sound, and smell... almost like the way funerals can be beautiful at times. turning a page to a new chater, i pause momentarily to look out the window, gather my thoughts, and return to reality. the large tree in the next yard, dotted with tiny clusters of white flowers, usually alight with buzzing bees and cawing crows on sunny days is absolutely quiet under the darkening sky. not even the leaves stir in the heavy air. as light evaporates from the atmosphere, the sky appears to get dirtier and dirtier, like how white cars become more and more dingy after being left parked on the street for too long. as i stare into the sky above the soothing green of the trees, i am pulled back into a murakami painting.

i pulled my feet up, bent my knees, and rested my chin on my hand. then i closed my eyes. still no sounds. the darkness benhind my closed eyelids was like the cloud-covered sky, buy the gray was somewhat deeper. every few minutes, someone would come and paint over the gray with a different-texured gray - one with a touch of gold or green or red. i was impressed with the variety of grays that existed. human beings were so strange. all you had to do was sit for ten minutes, and you could see this amazing variety of grays.

through my speakers, jacques brel's coarse and determined voice screams at french society or serenades about love and affection. closing my own eyes, i imagine myself back in france, soaking up the sights and feelings of calm goodness, only to rip myself out of my own fantasy after opening my eyes again. behind me on the freeway, silent cars move slowly towards orange county, and even more slowly into the san fernado valley. around five to seven pm daily, traffic rules the roads. from behind one of the cinder-block walls which separate the back alley from the yards of those who live on the next street, a lone dog barks - the only sound i hear on this sleepy-quiet low-key day, grinding to a halt.

conversation about the weather is the last refuge of the unimaginative.
: wilde.