The practitioners of the prose poem have been cloud based since 1841. If I didnt know better, I would have said that someone sent me a message. The sun hung behind the clouds so that I could see it perfectly without pain, this vibrant circle-source of light that haloed the atmosphere. And a dark cloud passed in front that was shaped like an eye, so the pupil of god watched me without judgement, and I closed my eyes and two perfectly synchronised tears fell from them, and this sky-gaze watched as I drove towards my house. Then the yet darker part of this cloud passed in front, and obscured the sun. But I knew then that the sun would appear again when the cloud passed. And of course this was a beautiful thing to know. I drove home and parked and listened to the rest of Jon Hopkin’s album and felt somewhat calm depsite the other tears which remained constantly ready to fall.
Maybe this was an instance of spirituality, the ancient eldritch bare-experience of things which is felt sometimes in the night, like a kind of dark squid that bumps up against your soul on the astral plane, its eye wide and black and all-seeing, something to be borne with gritted teeth ’til we can absorb ourselves once more in tasks and life with those whom we work to love. You can try to ignore what latent symbolism you notice in the big fluffy sunofaguns that just play in the sky. You can try.