The sky overhead has crushed all movement. The horizon is always out there and far away, until low clouds roll in and cover you and quietly the world becomes a bowl at the bottom of which you sit. You do not contemplate the distance but just the gray of what is near. It is never harmful to ask on such a day, Why do I bother? as the sky pulls you under. He is looking at this world covered over until he sees the brilliance of the red brake lights in front of him. What’s he doing? He’s stopped! Shit! He slams the brake—grabs the wheel—pulls hard right. The rearview mirror: nothing but a truck grill. Fuck! Hold on. Oh God, I love you, Jodie. But now he belongs to the weather.

Read the whole thread: A Low Cloud Reflex

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