I'm eating soup.
It's nice. Warm.
I look out the the large pair of windows in my kitchen as I eat. The vibrant green of the trees contrast the ever darkening gray sky. Leaves flutter here and there, the air is light.
But the wind grows. It moves the trees like music moves a soul, every individual leaf dances in a symphony of action the sound rushing like a train and the air humming a sweet melody, it's loud and they come alive like beings that want to be set free from their roots and they dance. Oh how they dance.
It stops.
The wind dies in a matter of seconds, a blink.
The leaves are frozen. They are ice. They do not dare move.
It is the eye of the storm. Calm.
The soup has gone cold.
It's quiet. Too quiet.
I know what is to come. The thing about the eye is that the storm always comes back, hitting you stronger than ever. So I wait.
Midnight.
The air outside is like glass, unbroken, still.
My eyelids drop, a second passes.
Monday, 5:00 am
My alarm sounds.
The trees dance, and with the unforgiving scream of the alarm, the storm is awake.
