RoM 07 - #8/9 The Voice of Angels
Does it matter what sky I wanted yesterday? At this minute it is over the Atlantic. Tomorrow that patch will be on a latitude unknown to me. Daylight is easy time. Night is simply closing your eyes. It is the creep transition of twilight when the changelings sparkle in the barren mist, one has to watch for. Transition is a hallway, the next door is the opportunity — often opened with momentum.
Winging through as the twilight grows deeper, I listen now to the silent accord of wings flapping — I notice that silence has become the cadence note coming around again and then again. I have a tough time shushing the angels’ voices that stretch out of the sky that is alway changing.
As the dark finally did, Bug’s voice breaks the spell, I knew I should have made that left turn at Albuquerque.
The car’s headlights dropped out of site. I pulled blindly off to the side roadway, popped the hood, got out of the car, and walked to the front with sand stinging my cheeks and hands.
The battery wires resented being connected properly. After a struggle, the power caught me by surprise. The radio's loud fuzz was torture and the light so sharp and bright I felt like I should be admitting to something. Indeed, I’ve never enjoyed talking to the police because of an uncanny impulse to admit to something I did not do. This was not that.
I stand on the outside. I’m no longer included in the maharaja effect.