It's wind-swept moor meets downpour on forest canopy, but toss in a good Michigan early autumn harbinger bite of chill in the crazy swirls of air bursting in the windows I can't bring myself to shut any more than these 6 and 8 inches. And it's coming in waves. Lots of 'em. It's unquiet; it's so very lively for such a late hour at the end of such a quiet little street where everyone else turned in hours ago.
At least put a shirt on, C seems to be saying to me. I mean, what the fuh.
Alright, a compromise: sleeveless. And bright red.
Paperbacks at the top of stacks are blowing open, as if ghosts are flipping to sample their first paragraphs. The green-and-lighter-green–checked GARNIeR® FRUCTiSTM NASCAR® bandana (I shit you not) that came with the sale shampoo attempts flight every minute or two, like some goofy early 20th-century contraption you see in newsreel footage. Excitement is in the very (& the literal) atmosphere. The kind of excitement you feel through the skin more than the brain. Collective unconscious. Instinct. Animal. Cave.
Who could sleep and miss all this? Goosebumps tell you you're alive, goddamn it. And some of these gusts add just a touch of danger, of possible peril out there. Make a body just a little more than slightly glad to be inside, listening to it, with no place to go & all the night before any of regular life commences again.