It’s that time of day when everything looks like bathwater. When the grill fires begin to wail, and the smoke sails off into nothing. That time of day you might consider perfect if it’s warm enough. And the sky is so clear you can see to the other side. That hour when the veil of evening hovers sheepishly over the day, and somewhere in the distance, Sublime can be heard plucking their groove. If ever there were a time for a plot twist that time would be now. Now when the stars are putting on their makeup backstage and the moon is brushing her teeth. Now when lunch is long over and dinner is not yet ready. Now when Purgatory knows its true name. And I am reading the Ethical Slut, pondering the wounds of my people. Now when everywhere the day glows gold and long over the mountains, its grip softening, its center fading. And some unknown bird is warbling in short, sharp bursts. 


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