Dulls and Sharps

The air was as bitter as a child's first attempt at lemonade. All sour, not sweet. Lemonade, it's just lemon juice and water right? Wrong. You just made sour water. It's not just the way the air here cuts you, it's the way it smells. The air here even smells sharp. Yet, it's not as sharp as the grass.

The grass, dulled by the grey of the sky, licks your ankles with sandpaper tongues. If a balloon were to miraculously fall, you know it would pop before it hit the ground. The grass is so long it reaches past your sneakers, clinging to you like sinners burning in hell trying desperately to claw themselves out.

It only makes sense that the sky, the midpoint between the air and the grass, was so dull to contrast the two of them. If the feeling of grogginess and utter exhaustion had a physical form, it would be the look of this sky. It was dense and deep and all-encompassing. It was the kind of sky that appears in a horror movie on the worst day of the protagonist's life. The dulls and sharps and bitters of this landscape merge and twist your perception.

You've been walking for a while, but all you can see is grass and sky. If you believed in the Christian god, this would be purgatory. Forever a blend of sharps and softs and bitter kid lemonade.