Pale 24
Pale. Joe Henry, Fuse. Snow crystals in suspension; earth gone ghostly. A sky the skim of ice over milk. Inside: clear light and music, pianos and trumpets. Brushed drums.
Guitars and bass. The smell of laundry.
Folding. Time.
A pale week of washed-thin hours jump-cut together. Single degree moments. Glitter in the air. Ambient light in white, snow blue and spectral lavender. Minutes that fade in and out like ghosts — or frosted breath in Winter air.
It is 5:13, now. It doesn’t feel like it.
And now it is not.
Henry sings the phrase, “incubating diamonds”. The visual is vivid. The moment is still pale. Twenty-four into January and the mercury is deep in its well. Friday, and I’m folding slowly into the weekend.
Stay warm.