the span of sound

Tuesday, the 5th of September, 2006

It had rained steadily, in the lead up to this evening, and the light was low on the misty, twilit air, ducking just below the eyeline of every living thing. You had to strain to make out some proof that there did exist a physical world of any clarity, and then the effort would overtake you, before you had even realised, and the nullification of a dream thus begins it's own birth, an insistant progeny, delivered, ab-conception, of itself.The rain altered its presence, and the volume, saturation, coverage, visited on the earth the way an at-home guest might rearrange itself on the sofa, never once glancing out the window, to the streets below the balcony, only gazing at the tv screen as the tired hosts excuse themselves on occasion to replenish the hot water, or make a telephone call, or reassure themselves that the spare room is still occupied.The mornings of abrasive, hairy-cheeked, estival joviality, almost proclaim themselves a lamentation, overly protested. The nights that began to dodder from 2 pm in the afternoon, cold within the cold that hibernated in the caves of sultry buffets that boxed at the outgrowings of seedlinged things and convenient creations, prompted one to think of the icicles that in the conditions were not thinkable, or able to be dreamed of by a climate possessed of abstrusion.In the lead up to this soft evening, with wet awnings, more yellow in the dusk than they are in the pale light of day, it seemed to have been raining forever.