hwithumalut

The shimmering ghost haze is almost unseen in the starless skies. But it has to be there! Because the street signs brightly glow. Different car’s headlight beams fight for my tired eyes. A wonderful sight of natural machine magic, or a real life cinematic color show!

I grip my wheel loosely and I drive slowly. I stop at the red octagons from habit and memory. I watch the glowing beauty and I read other signs infrequently Distracted by the power of that nocturnal piece from the world's gallery.

High-beams bouncing into the street turning it white. The glowing patterns inside are a faint billion hues. You can see each lamppost beam scraping the night. Why can’t I explain to you why this is my muse?

But let's try anyway, despite the impossible challenge. The red, yellow, and green lights are always so dull by day. The sun’s sinister grip even blights traffic cones that are tangy orange. But by nightfall, and mistwake, the dryness is sent away.

Dazzle returns to the world, with eerie light expanding in the road’s colorful billowing mist cloak. So, The details of the colors and sign-words are blurring Because my windshield is Impressionist. Blurry, but crystalline in the roke.

My friend in the passenger seat and I bicker over what we’re seeing. “It’s like your looking a Van Gogh and saying it’s ugly” “No, it’s more like your giving divine meaning to a wall’s painting” But I’m happy and content to disagree with my friend freely.

The night is a nostalgic vision of a slowed down movie scene Each frame of the drive taken, piece by piece, one at a time My sleepiness transforms my sight into a museum of the serene I wade toward the unknown visual siren’s voice, a soft chime.

I look out across the lake who shines brighter than the mist

Blurred images like cities in the night In the neon images of a cyberpunk setting Are the beauty that lies before me in the light. The crickets' hum was hiding the noise of driving.

I am distracted by this foggy beauty, making others bored. “But it’s endless refraction and dreamy pale qualities!” are unlike the unremarkable guardrails, which I drift toward. “Money makes all art worse, produced in higher and higher qua-”