There is a hill to the North of here that looms over the twinkle of the valley like a shadow. The sky is so low and dark that it seems to merge with the hill. It's like I am standing at the mouth of a cave made of cloud and earth that hides the city from the rest of the universe. From here, the river is nothing but a smudge at the bottom of the hill, and if you look closely, you can almost see the water creeping along the bed like asnake trying to sneak away into darkness.
The wind blows through the valley with force and power, as if a greek god was common us. The wind blows my hair over my eyes and to the side of my face. Like a shotgun blast dirt attempts to penetrate my eye balls but I automatically shut them ensuring the safety of my pupils. The wind is keeping the valley alive and restless. When the wind blows like this nothing remains a constant or the way it was before hand. I can watch the ordinary be rearranged and witness the rebirth of something that once was old. Nothing is attached in the valley, everything is just as unattached as gypsies who roam the country side liberated in their freedom.
It was raining earlier. Not hard rain like you would get on the coast, but the kind of rain I am used to at home. The kind that, just as it seems it's going to start up, vanishes before it leaves more than a dozen droplets on your head. Still, the air smells clean and crisp. Everything feels fresh, and like it might try to rain again; maybe leave a small puddle or two on the pavement.
Across the city the moon pikes...