nostalgic

I still miss things and people from time to time, that doesn't ever stop. Moments like that come in different ways. A song, or a smell, an image. Sometimes the temperature is at a certain degree and the wind picks up the chill, a drifting waft of cigarette smoke and burnt coffee, and I'm suddenly jolted back to certain days, days of when happysad and sadhappy were the same and altogether overwhelming. Or like nights when the heater is on high, too high that you had to open the window to let some cool air in or let some hot air out. You stick your head out the window and let the chill run up your front while the warmth hold you from behind. The dark as thick as india ink and the moon so close you can swing it like the pendulum of a clock. Your mind empty and clear and bouyant. Altogether warm and cold.

I wish I can paint my wall orange...
So that the blues seem more cool from the inside, and orange seem more warm from the outside.