Projections of the Inner Self As Patterns of Weather

My prediction came true: yesterday afternoon the sky darkened with navy blue clouds and the wind tore limbs off trees.

I sat in my car parked at a traffic light and watched dust rise up from the ground. The wind compressed it and it took the shape of a snake being plucked from the ground by two strong fingers. A plastic bags rose straight up into the air until it reached a height of 100 feet from the ground, then sailed due west.

Rain splattered my filthy, filthy car.

Flags flapped so hard from their poles they buzzed like insects. Trash tumbled down the street between cars and people walking by were tossed aside.

The sky turned green: never a good sign. The wind was so strong that in my garage the force of it blowing by sucked all the air from the room, from the lungs.

When it dried, my car was dirtier than before the storm.

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