interior

it's about the turn inwards, the way the mind detaches, becomes still, watchful. it comes on like thunder, a rumble under the breath, the downward shift of the barometer. it suffuses, fog-like, diffuse, rising up from inside, spreading outwards the way frostbite travels inwards. it's a numbness, an enoughness, a too-muchness. it's elusive, this old travelling companion, slippery like light off a chrome surface, or maybe more like that halo that frames - no, bleeds into - your target when you shoot right into the light. you'd think after all the time we've been together, all the terrain we've covered, i might anticipate it with a little more accuracy. but it's always a surprise guest, the one that slips in with the invited, the one upon whom it would be rude to close the door. "come on in," i always end up saying. "come on in and make yourself at home."


ryan adams - damn, sam (i love a woman that rains)