You ever watch a storm in the far-away distance that you cannot hear? I love lazy rain and silent lightning. Everyone is cremated on the plains, even your frozen music, the cities and towns, it all turns to ash, even rain can turn to dead stone, love.
Haven't noticed the mornings, have you, the burnt cinnamon red sun, satellites crashing into the midnight blue lake, nightfall, broken traffic lights, the flaming night-windmills and peach orchards dotting the countryside like strange monsters with thousands of eyes.
If only my heart were made of a stone. Instead, it's an expensive horse saddle forgotten on a fence, the secret life of speckled winter flowers and the scent of afternoon lilac, my red clay, the dark side of the shade on the barn door.