Sunday was lovely.
Dreamy.
We sat as cats, in front of the window, on the floor, satisfied and purring, stoned on catnip. I said something profound, or thought I did, but I can't remeber it now. Before we knew it the day had conspired with the night and turned out the lights on us. So I turned on a projector, producing an emerald-green universe which spun slowly over our heads, like a luminous, celestial mobile. There was something somehow aqueous about the stars, the way they drifted across the ceiling, glimmering, blanketed by a blue, undulating aurora. We listened to old radio broadcasts, songs from the souls of dead singers; how they haunt our hearts long after they've gone; echoes wandering lonesomely through space and time, painted with the pale fire of long dead stars.
We fell briefly from time's merry-go-round, hiding beneath it and laughing, watching with wide eyes as it whirled around above us. The stars weren't dead where we were. Neither were the singers.
Somewhere there were blue waves crashing under a coal-colored sky.
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