it only brings my sorrow, the same that i would want today, i will want again tomorrow

outside it's warm. the first real spring day. but the sky is still rumbling. it's light blue but mostly gray. the sky line glows in front of it - the dark black on the light gray. but it's not a nice light gray, it's the light gray of the first spring storm. the wind is blowing on the electric wires of the street poles; they're waving back and forth like a jump rope.

it's twilight. i'm standing in the window painting cerulean blue. i am watching girls in heels outside of my window and skirts. i don't know what they're doing in my neighborhood; they don't belong here. behind them walks a man in black. and i'm listening to boots of spanish leather.

and as i watch the water dripping on my canvas, i start to hear from my open window, the drops falling on the twilight streets outside. i am thinking that, if somebody asked, i'd tell them that this is what we sounded like.