The artists are sauntering; pitter… shuffle... brush stroke… patter. They’re like saints, only they wore Converse. In the near distance a saw buzzed and grinded through today’s fresh catch; the air becoming murky with the scent of disembodied heads mixed in with a sting of salt water and panic. A monk’s chant enticed the crowd to stop and sway, to throw a penny into his healing hands and dream their troubles away. Tires from every eco-friendly bike drift over dew kissed pavement; a warning bell is rang. People scattered and a sea of “excuse me’s” got carried away in the melodies of his trumpet. There were aged brick pathways that instructed one on where to go; freshly brewed coffee became entangled with tiny droplets of rain, exploding on the tongues of consumers. It’s a good change from the scent of death. Rainbows dripped from the thick bristles of a horses tail, an image of Jesus was being painted on a virgin white canvas. There were bakeries erected on every street corner, a wave of thick accents went over the daily specials of bread, coffee, seafood, and smiles. The gentle touch of Mother Nature tickled the underbelly of chimes, as they all danced amongst each. Turquoise, opal, pearl, and deerskin were put on display with a promise of “Authentic Native American Goods.” I found my haven at the side of Lake Washington; a place where grunge still existed and everyone smelled like teen spirit. I introduced my heart to its home, and wrote the vows of our affection.
(I accidentally posted this with a picture but did not intend to. Gr five in the morning, gr!)
Created: Jul 02, 2010Document Media