Just had lunch with Yerika and Ramondi (spelling?), and Rychlewski dropped in for a couple of minutes as well. I feel a lot better though, still retaining a healthy synical streak, but with more purpose

Our Earth is both the most beautiful and most horrible of all the places.

And the little dews of yellow light
project their contrasting geometry
upon a weathered rough wall,
And the gray spectrum
bloomed by the watery glass
lightens the warm, wooden night,

Dancing along my walk,
the wind breathes past the beige
that death has placed upon the grass and leaves
sprouting from the cracks in the pavement.
The rusted bridge holding the tracks above
peel by the decay of earth's forces
even though the underside is shielded from the directions from it.

Stark trees in constant quests for truth
creep up the bridge's cold, plastered wall,
already bathed with projections of the sunset.
They are, in lislight, condemned to these black reflections of their existences,
Almost forced to flourish or
depreciate by the might of their seasons.

But a haze of wintery, white specs race through the air,
diving with eyes closed for the lives it was created to claim,
its process implying its progress.
The snow is without consequence,
paralyzing the courage of whatever it holds.
The pavement is watermarked
by each delicate snowflake of invisible ink,
only revealed by the fine line of growth and instability.

A glowing warmth, once on the brick wall,
illuminating, without any concentration in any uncertainty,
the simple splendor of it all,
a beautiful confusion of grayscale and color,
a catalyst drafting me with the beige leaves to the light of fall.