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| Wednesday, February 17, 2010 |
| Quiet |
There's just something about the roll and crash of the drum. The sound of a longing voice, singing of love lost and rain. Such joy in the crisp, clean blues scale, reverberating from keys. There is an appreciation for the guitar, but the more subdued version. Who needs ripping riffs of electric discoarse? A deep bass issues lazily, as though it just occured to its strings that its time to sing.
Flowers on the table, perched in a yellow pot painted by small hands. A sprig in the bottle blue, contents long sipped and gone. It is a day of introspection, a day of deep contemplation, a day the clouds threaten to burst. Rather they float along, various shades of white, gray and black. The mountain hides cleverly behind a veil of fog.
Phone calls ignored, the bath is drawn. Too early for champagne and strawberries, though the scene calls for it. A book, perhaps, something new, heavy and strongly written, with just enough left to the imagination, so the reader can relate. A cup of hot hibiscus tea, sent from a faraway land in a package that makes the heart soar.
Quiet. A hunger awakens. Time to lunch. |
posted by katmandusuekookachoo @ 12:09 PM  |
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