Wet days in summer. The rain shimmering as it beats on the warehouse roof and fills the quietly overgrowing ditch behind the building. Puddles splurge, swallowing up the parts of the road you ride your bike on. The smell of fresh saturation radiates in through the entrances, across the crisp borders of shelter drawn on the concrete in two tones. The sky reaches all the way low to the surface and engulfs it. Continue packing boxes while swimming in a cloud. Outside the widest vastest space to feel free in. Welcomes you by eating into your dry clothes, making you part of it until you aren’t concerned with getting wet anymore. Speak into the cloud expanse, so sheer as to never sense the sound’s reflections. Remember underneath how much you are made of wet inside. Rejuvenating soup, breathe in the vapours deeply. The long, untrimmed summer grass in a rustling dance, moving as though marionette strings puppet each blade. Pattering. The strings flicker like static and tap dance across the purple-brick car park, the plastic sheet roofs, and the smoothening, shifting gravel. Past the left-open-window or hung-out-washing worries of onlookers, briefly paused to peer out from thick offices. The fields beyond the iron fence drink deeply. The splattered illusion of greens shining through the dense air, flora heaving gracefully to life in the humidity.
Miniature explosions pepper windshields and gutters, flat leaves and lamp covers. Uncountable sounds blur and bleed into each other. The whole business park hums pure noise.
Quit Vision 