And here we are, standing in the soup of air, the humid entrance to a changing weather front, the thunder rumbling in translucent sound deep in the distance. The hum of crickets and the trickle of raindrops fill open ears. The glow of a Waffle House sign and the blinding nature of gas station LED lights offsetting it in a strange dichotomy of dimensional travel, of transparency between times. The loving lurch forward, the hating speed up to slow down, the laws swirl through air made of judgmental and righteous feelings. The mosquitos interface with gods original bizzaro land, one where the logic of the universe and all that occurs become a mesh of communication, a confusion of steadfast eyes and closed ears and open mouths screaming for the inevitable to halt and let their hearts congeal into stopping position before they change. Yet the change is the only constant no matter how hard they fight.
A young man asks me "Is that a Nikon or a Cannon?" with a limber slight drawl, or rather an airy relaxed almost classy slowed down accent, in no rush to then tell me how he has a Cannon rebel. He likes the Nikon's sensor and the overall image size, but he still loves the Cannon and the action and the way she moves. Then he says my waitress will be right with me and I proceed to say thank you and order a meal of proportions fit for Thor and Odin and all the warriors at the God's temple of Waffle House. North Carolina you are a strange mistress, an old soul full of sickness and beauty. You will forever be captivating to me in your slow yet unrelenting humid gusts of evolution. I'll enjoy this coffee, and then go outside in the the hot tub that is the spring night.