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Notes06/17/2019
Floyd
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Floyd
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The shimmering cool fog
It's coming, the shimmering cool fog. It swirls on the horizon, rushes over the hot summer fields of Provence, weighs tingling vervain and fresh mint and lets them dance among the glowing citrus trees. I close my eyes and let him do it.
His breeze makes my clothes flutter, I feel his tiny drops of fog on my face, the refreshing coolness on my skin, in my soul, I dream for a few short hours in a shady wood of light woods, which settle down together with the green and citric freshness on soft musk.
When he has gone after three to four hours then again, dried from the heat of the day, vaporized over the concrete of the canyons of the city, then I call him again. And it's coming, the shimmering cool fog.
His breeze makes my clothes flutter, I feel his tiny drops of fog on my face, the refreshing coolness on my skin, in my soul, I dream for a few short hours in a shady wood of light woods, which settle down together with the green and citric freshness on soft musk.
When he has gone after three to four hours then again, dried from the heat of the day, vaporized over the concrete of the canyons of the city, then I call him again. And it's coming, the shimmering cool fog.
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