Dissatisfied

[rejectomorph]

The moon sets, and pale clouds form, slowly spreading from west to east until the sky takes on the look of parchment. It is a vast, dark page, blank, but strewn with small diamonds. A meteor might write a long stroke which then would vanish, but none appears. Whatever might be said remains unwritten. I stare, and wonder what words might be suited to such a page. None come to mind. In the absence of revelation, I turn my attention to the nearby; the deeper, undifferentiated, clumped darkness of the trees which utterly conceals the houses and the horizon. The forest seems lower than usual, as though weighted down, distorted by some pressure. Perhaps it is the blankness, the missing words, which cause the world to shrink. That sky demands something, and I am unable to provide it. I return to the house to brood. I try to read, but cannot concentrate. I keep remembering that sky. I'll probably dream about it.