The Third of August.

writing story

published 1970-01-01 00:00

updated 1970-01-01 00:00

%date 130803 00:00

The clouds appeared as if they didn't know where to go today. They casually strolled in and out of the wind, occasionally loitering next to the sun. Some of them lay on tree tops, unable to seduce Sleep; tossing and turning, as if by changing their appearance they could fool her. They could not. Others hung silently, and still. Not drenched in melancholy, about to cry, or shivering with the cold, but merely closing their eyes. Perhaps Atlas has grown tired of holding up the world.