Mornings, evenings, and nights.

Did you ever sit in an empty parking lot and just stare into the Twilight?  I'm doing it right now. Whether the sun is rising or setting, the colors fuse and blend in the most natural and stunning way. It just happens to be sunrise now. In the comfort of my car and the soothe of the radio sounds and the canvas of the sky, my existence begins to paint a picture. Emotions are snared out of the ether, captured from the essence of song, and implanted hard on my brain and in my spirit. My eyes trace lines across skyscapes; imaginary, invisible lines that dissappear faster than they never were, yet leave an impression on my conscious. The confines of my car frame an image from several directions, while imploring me to see everything from a new angle.

During this mental renaissance is when you are most susceptible. More susceptible to all things. You are art incarnate and questions flow through you. It's the only time when I have an answer to each one and none at all and neither prospect disturbs me. I get to be so artificial, while being entirely natural. In my vision out of my front windshield, I see colors mix. Colors that almost don't exist. Blue and yellow and white twist together, forming strands of a color stream that were not there yesterday, 5 weeks ago, last era, or when they were first born. I behold them with esteem and honor and deep reverence, even though I don't know I'm doing it. I can just tell I'm being pomp and kind.

And the music is telling a story into my ears and out of my heart. Emotions that don't have words. Hurt and joy combined, yet not quite. An amalgam of melancholy, triumph, pride, and loneliness bounce through my body where my soul should be. Feeling two emotions at once, or three or four, comes as easy as blinking. The tone changes and so does your mood. It tells you what to feel. It forms a hand and grips your brainstem and now it controls you. You move not voluntarily or with purpose, but out of passion and instinct. The sound fades as the song ends and then the process starts anew. In cycles and circles and spirals.

Some clouds creep across the air like sludge and others dart quickly like a threatened reptile. The wind starts and stops, each act bringing a different miracle with it: simplicity or resistance. Nothing is happening yet you feel as if you could watch it until you slept and dreamt and woke once more and then watch again. And again and again and again.

Then life beckons at you, a child in need of help. Shakes are sent through you, some mental, some physical, both self-inflicted. Somehow you toss the ideas aside and somehow you overcome the beauty and the majesty and the utter pleasantry the scene brings with it and somehow you turn the key and shut it down. The car door opens and you step out.