Driving home the other day, the sky was overcast but the clouds ended in a jagged edge a finger's breadth above the horizon. Someone had had a good day, I think, and they tore off a piece of the sky to fold up and put in their pocket, to remember the day by. And underneath, the sky was wearing that dizzy-dazzling white-gold that took my breath away for a perfect second.
Driving past Pretoria's people encased in cars: where are they all going / what are they thinking about / are they in love / did they laugh today / do they ever count all their toes like I do, just to make sure they're all still there. Maybe they are wondering like I am and our thoughts are parallel. I think all our number plates in order could be stringed together to get a perfect recipe for the DNA of the universe.
Or maybe they are rewind-playback-ing their day, mourning monstrous and stubborn smudges of imperfection. Maybe they see the ghost ballerinas, black and tight-rope walking the telephone lines home. Or maybe the jabberwocky demons, sleepily watching us from the Jacaranda trees. Maybe they are looking at the robots and thinking about them later changing colour to an empty road, red-green-oranging over and over on a tired Tuesday 1a.m.
if you ever become cynical ... its because you have forgotten to look at the sky
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