talking shit about a pretty sunset.

There is something indescribably sad about the clouds of Manchester at night. The city lights tint the atmosphere with burnt sepia and dull copper tones, a hazy, passionless blaze encompassing, suffocating those bellow. It's eery. Apocalyptic. 

The lack of blackness frustrates me. The logic of darkness at night doesn't hold in the city, with its manufactured neon happiness and superficial streetlight stars. There is no respite behind closed lids. The light remains, taunting, dancing on my eyelids, burning my retinas. It skips like stars, a galaxy etched into my skin, and I float, drifting within my kaleidoscope eyes. Blue, purple, white, orange...

I wish I could sleep.

Rothko, Untitled No. 4, 1964

PS. Birds suck. My head hurts.