Flash

[rejectomorph]

The eastern sky wears moonlight but not the moon itself just yet. Though it has risen, it remains swathed in clouds. In a while it will escape the vapors and the night will fill with sharp shadows, but for now the landscape is soft. Even the mild evening air reminds me of cool gossamer. Crickets are chirping again, and it is almost like an evening in early spring. The atmosphere creates one of those moments in which various fragments of my life flash before my eyes. I wonder if this means part of me is dying?