Uttered I grumpily, noticing the glooming halo poking atop the peak. Though there’s not much more magnificent sight to witness down here than her imperciptible happening against the dishevelled dark canopy ripping the sky apart.
Her indolent glow inundates slowly the firmament, concealing the vertiginous infinity of the cosmos from my consciousness for a moment, so I can’t count, and I can’t see, and I can’t speculate, and maybe that’s good for me.
I didn’t find a place to hang. Well, because there’s no glades on the mountainside, you see. And if I hang on a slope there’s a chance I’ll slide straight into a disaster. I should go to the top, but not tonight. It’s too hot and I’m too lazy.
Not yet.
So I just lay a moment and contemplate the milky skies above, rocked by the hoots and the vixen’s screams and the chirpings. At least the walk was chilling.
And I head back home, the little bag wrapping my hamock’s straps, suspended to the bottom of my pack, gently banging rhythmically against my fundament at each steps, potom, potom. potom, potom. A peaceful smelly hobo roaming the night, nursing a nacent rhyme in her imagination.
A strange thought crosses my mind. « Is a slight stench indivisible from serendipity? »
Day in, day out, routinely getting there, one overwhelmingly affected and circonvulated piece of prose at a time.
But not yet.
Not quite yet.
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