Cover Story
To study the multifarious strokes of southerly wind on bronzed, oily skin, to spend our time better, abiding in the in-between, noting the finite of infinite - the things right in front of our face, we fail to notice everyday, sitting in graying hues of black porous dirt, bathing in the shallow orange of ageing September rays; it's being spun like a cobwebbed earth, indiscriminately catching all the comes its way: Today, like all the rest, there's a mysterious twitch in the accelerating strings of time, river smells of midafternoon spewing off from the sputtering clouds; and a silence in its whitish stroke, finally slowing the hasty universe down; it's soothing, like wooden flute notes in our ears, a calming ripple through the gravity that holds us all in place. Get closer, and you'll see all amazing intricacies, the earth, just shifting over slightly, not even close to several degrees.