solecism
untitled
The sun looks like it’s pissed off and leaving before it gets in a fight. Twilight doesn’t seem all that happy to be here—like a guy going to work at a job he hates because somebody’s gotta pay the rent. And there you are, up on the roof, stuck in the middle of a celestial domestic dispute.
The absconding sun illuminates the roof with a sort of saxophone clarity. Ain’t nobody else up there, and in that light the roof looks as black and slick-wet as a coal miner’s lungs. The niggling breeze smells like socks worn by old cabbage-eating men, but it’s better than being inside and listening to the endless loop of Law and Order episodes through the cheap-ass walls.
There’s always a moment, though—it lasts about as long it takes it takes to light a cigarette—when the sky turns the color of lips bruised by passion. Maybe some paint manufacturer has come up with a name for that color, who knows and who cares. It’s a pretty color and it makes coming up to the roof seem like a good idea. Then the sun says “fuck it, I’m outa here” and and grumpy twilight clocks in and takes over. You might as well go back downstairs.
Blog photograph copyrighted to the photographer and used with permission by utata.org. All photographs used on utata.org are stored on flickr.com and are obtained via the flickr API. Text is copyrighted to the author, greg fallis and is used with permission by utata.org. Please see Show and Share Your Work
