the great object of life is sensation -
to feel that we exist, even though in pain

♠︎ ♕ ♠︎


By the time they arrived at the prairie, with the city and its bonfires a firefly-glow in the distance behind them, August had sobered up a little bit. He’d snacked on mouthfuls of grasses and rich ripe blackberries as they walked, which helped, and the cool night wind only prodded him further awake. Which was grand; meant he could start all over with the drinking when they got back.

Now they stood at the crest of a hill, looking down over the moonlight green. This late in summer the grass was shoulder-high in places, all of it bending in ripples and waves in the wind, silver as the sea under the moonlight. 

“Here’s our canvas,” he said, then screwed up an eye to squint at the stars overhead. “More black than blue tonight, though. What now?”