I like the days that ease into my consciousness without the harsh contrast of the sun jostling me to wake. I like the grey clouds that slowly slither into my dreams wrapping their nebulous arms, such that I feel as if I open my eyes into dusk, as easily as they closed into the darkening twilight hours before. Those are the days that sit in dreams to me, and I allow such billowing thoughts to carry me through the day. I like that feeling of encapsulation, the abstracted quality to the day, how I slide through it so synchronous with the musings of the sky. Today started in such a way, with the coolness of the morning air flowing around me as water slowly meandering stream. These days have me always longing to practice, to feel the notes humming in my chest, behind my eyes. To feel my fingers tracing out the past and present. Still though, I feel the laryngitis I had weeks ago squatting in my throat. I try to flex my voice a bit, to feel it push on the edges of itself, but draw back as if burned as the pallor within edges on scratching pain. So I let the voice sink back into the languid depths of me, and flex my fingers instead. It isn't the same, but still eases the restlessness I suddenly feel. 

Now though, the sun has burned through the mistral day and the heat rises clasps my hands and face. Another muggy night in which I can only dream of the rain and clouds...

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