The wind tore through the land, causing the million golden, fibers of grass to murmur in gossip. Seagulls hung lazily in the air, craning their necks into the wind, attempting to get ahead of the others. The water rippled, insistently swimming in circles, consuming the algae on the rock-lumped shore.
The hills in the distance slouched in their balcony seats, squinting at the sun as it hung low in the west. The slouching was necessary to avoid the cheese-slice railing of the power lines, long wires segregating the hazy picture into sea and sky.
Alongside the insistent murmurs of the whispering grass stalks, an asphalt carpet rolled out, marking a path for celebrities and holding back the landscape from getting in the way. This swervy pavementrain conducts many elite passengers between venues, allowing a voyeuristic view into the dangerous wild; a view without the bane of submitting to the whispering mass of conspiracy amidst the shores of the bay.
And then: the paparazzi.
Saturday, June 30, 2007
This is a random mood construction I wrote after biking along the bay...