Sun-Smudged Peach Moon

Softer than an ice cream cone in June. There is no moon, no sun to smudge it. The fog blankets our small town, every inch of blue sky blotted out by this abysmal gray. Soft as it is, the rain still dampens everything; the ground, the air, the mood and rhythm of the day. It's an Elliot Smith song outside, but behind these windows the spirits are lifted, or that seems to be the impression at least. People caught between conversation and dining etiquette, choking down food fiending for words; a story, a farce, a recollection told countless times, just something to avoid that hiccup in socializing, that silence on the horizon. To fathom that elusive sound of pure uninhibited human silence in an environment like this tickles the fantastic. The volume of indiscernible chatter and desperate laughs giving way to a thick silence. Grotesque to some, uncomfortable to most, but nonetheless beautiful. Air conditioning ducts hum to prominence accompanied by an incessant clank of cheap silverware on even cheaper dishware, the muffled pitter-patter of the rain on the patio. Ahh, the indescribable ecstasy of impossibility.

[TIME FOR CLASS]