Friday, March 28, 2008

Friday, March 28, 2008. There's a shadow of a bell on the building below me. The sun is up. This is your morning wake-up call.

(The smoke from a firecracker gets swept up by the wind and streams across the open fields. Two boys in ski jackets and hats scream as each rocket they shoot takes off and exploades in front of their eyes. We stay on the boys faces and the unlit pile, never the explosions themselves.)
In fifteen minutes we'll try to catch the wind on film. Not like the mornings we wake minutes before the alarm clock without the ache from sleep in our bones and you see it's shadow spread across and empty road, but the sound that peels hard against our ears. It's anger is the only symptom that makes it seem active even if it is always moving; like trying to catch it is a glass bottle and watching it shake like grains of sand caught in the swirl, proof of its existence. In my steps down the stairs my scarf will catch glances, whipping in my vision and tripping up my balance. One hand could jut out to the right to catch the step and the other could cover my face. The train won't stop. Wake up.