A Different Kind of Dread
The light at times is so bright i am unable to see, temporarily blind, until the next corner leads back to dull grey nothing. Penetrated by short sharp bursts.
Window pains clean before being crystallised by sunrise; before the black comes and the earth turns seven A. M. black.
The late September brings leather mittens and shell toes, a year since the mountains rocked high in Sikkim, splitting around us. My body hurts just thinking about it.
Pound shops and immature breath replace landslides and the almighty Himalaya. A different kind of dread.