Today's Forecast

The Pacific Northwest is expecting snow. Four to six inches. North to northeast winds increasing late tonight and gusts to 45 mph on Saturday. The wind will likely reduce visibility at times due to blowing snow, especially near shorelines of the inland waters. There will be some paradise remaining on Tuesday. This is because precipitation is a complex process, and paradise is a conceptual alloy of wildcats and wishful thinking. It’s difficult to simulate its exact value. But what I can do is make some coffee and wait.

The snow ignites waves as the stomach completes its hair. And this is considered, by Leibniz, to be too imprecise to be used as a foundation for calculus.

But ok for windows.

The hibiscus crashes through its birth and this is followed by a sweet mutation of feeling. Therefore, there will be storms of sausage on Wednesday and this will be followed by a warming trend. And when I ask you to be mine, you’re gonna say that you love me too.

We rinse some beautiful stems and move the furniture around. This achieves oil and colloquy. A mimosa engulfs itself in unlimited possibility. It makes me feel vintage, like an industry in the south of China. The bronze splash is whispering Beatles lyrics. It’s thoughtful lighting a snowball, but the plumber cannot sleep.

Still my guitar gently weeps. The tarpaulin bear walks across the table. Fat fingers fill a glass with chamomile. Coconuts and beans taste of detachment. I sit in the sand chair and dream of Moscow.

Nobody can say, precisely, what the weather is going to do. We worry about the commas of the cavern, the neglect toward our planet, and a warm sense of acceptance and resignation awakens. The elephant hammer is grimacing. It affirms our fiber, our tallow, our truths and feuds and scissors. We must learn to reconcile ourselves with uncertainty, with contingency and conjecture. There’s nothing in between except cheese.

I see the ooze of the foggy field and retreat from pertinence. The scorpion does a dance. My knees are radical as time. I’m falling through my heels. I capture diffusion by wrestling with everything I see and wondering if it’s simple or belladonna. I’m thoughtless as leaning a palm to my chin. I convey menus of sting and debonair.

The weather is changing. It’s always changing. That’s what weather does. It quivers in our juice with the thrill of impermanence and the mournful apprehensions of the foghorn. We study the heads with bright despair. There is a weather in our attitude, climates in our voices. Lightning is a giant spark of the brain. First comes gladness, and then comes rain.