There was music, and words, and conviction, and talking. The morning moved on slow and fast all at once, the way it usually does on a Sunday, and we come home and eat a late lunch; tuna is delicious, although many people disagree. I played a game for a while, and I remember thinking earlier today and wondering why killing isn't considered a bad thing in video games. Maybe because we're killing villains, and they're not real people anyway, plus you get points for taking them out? But does that affect how we see death in the real world?
The sky was a plain greyish-white earlier, but now the sheet-cloud has drifted off and the sky is blue, except for the horizon, which is a grapefruit-orange. The moon is already in the sky, and it looks pretty close to being completely round, like one of those tortilla chips (not the triangular kind, because a triangular moon would be ridiculous). Except there's no dip. Bummer. But they say the moon is made of cheese, which means it would be best eaten between giant crackers or in a massive ham-and-cheese sandwich (except it would be more like a ham-and-moon sandwich, I guess).
All of the trees are draped around like brown skeletons, save for those few that still hold on to a handful of dried-up leaves, and the evergreens, which, as usual, are green and needle-y. The neighbor's pulling out of the driveway in his dark gray Pontiac, and now I remember my ruminations on how strange our world would seem to someone from, say, the Middle Ages, or even the 1700s. It's all racing metal carriages and giant metal and concrete trees with lights on top, and strange solid-rock roads and flimsy houses that can somehow be as warm as the equator inside even in the middle of winter. And we have pieces of glass that have endless streams of letters and pictures and moving pictures. It would all seem like magic to the people of the past.
I have a little red streak on my hand that won't go away. Rug-burn? Scrape? No idea. Oh, unless it was from when I rammed my hand into the air-brake on the door when I was carrying in that Rubbermaid. That was a pretty painful experience. And isn't it funny, that yard-sign on the front lawn, and all these papers on the office desk, all proving that my dad owns a business? It's strange to think about, because he never owned a business when I was younger, and at my age I actually realize what owning a business means and what a big thing that is. Although, when I'm my dad's age, it might not seem so strange. But personally, I'd rather write or sing and play music or make music on a computer, even, and I know my dad would rather be back in Peru. The future is exciting and bizarre and scary and unnerving and confusing and looking awesome all at once.
I wonder what's in store...
