I wake in air saddened by summer's demise. I lay in the cool bleak light with my eyes closed trying to recall what memory it is waking within me. Beyond my wandering fingers flipping through the files of mornings past is that sound, of distant cars shaking within the hills themselves. It is that sound, a constant trembling, and the shape of the light, a sleek whale shadowing the oceaned sky that feels as familiar as a hummed dream. Yet within it, I cannot find form, only blurred thoughts and aching that no longer has a place. What are these displaced feelings? How do they find themselves detached, orphans lost in contextual no-mans land? I cannot quite shake this feeling that is no feeling, and I float into today on an ocean with no islands in sight.
