That day, he might have sung a deep forest or written down the best journey through mountains and valleys you ever read. He could have flicked stars with his fingers while dancing to slow jazz. The color grey looked sturdy and blue was easy. A symphony of earth was in his eyes that day.

This day, he sang nothing at all and went nowhere. The stars droned and jazz was a dissonant sob. Grey glazed his mind, blue threatened to strangle him, and the earth just stopped spinning.

Two days so close together, so inexplicable in their polar play. Was it days? Was it him? Was it the features of life in a tumult? He only knew that this day, he was too dull to know and too dead to care. He knew that the previous day could not have happened, couldn’t bring into his mind the free joy of yesterday. His blood was cement and his eyes didn’t notice the waves.

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