Returning to my roots...

After my photographic diaspora over the past few weeks, I decided to compound my energy into getting back into nature landscapes. I can affirm without doubt that this was a wise choice for the glory that nature provides can be endless at times.

I'm including more senseless fictional ramblings today because I haven't done so in a few entries, and I have nothing more to write.

If not for the oft-noted banal aesthetics of the exterior walls – the drab ashen stone that rose from the asphalt like Picasso’s monochromatic phoenix – Clark would not have been able to see the library on approach. The permeating mist and suffocating humidity shrouded the entire city in a dream-like haze that persisted through the early morning commute. It was relatively cold for early March in Florida. The huddled masses waiting to cross the busy streets of downtown Orlando were wrapped in their Inuit-style jackets and sweaters, bracing naturally for the onset of an ice age. It was a quirky and unexpected sighting for Clark. Our flawed and apathetic antagonist did not correctly predict the weather based on his assumptions the previous evening. Clark sits in his car having found a parking space a few blocks from the library. His starchy white short-sleeved shirt and baby blue tie contrast the somber panorama of a winters’ last grasp. He sits leaned forward, the palms of his hands face outward as if showing a crowd his stigmata. But his stance is lacking greatly in pious intention. Clark is attempting, at best, to intensely warm his hands before making the trek across the street to the library. The look on his face conveys that this method is not working. He huffs and checks his fast-food chain-obtained Harry Potter watch. It is no longer functioning properly, and displays a relatively obscure time. The snitch has fallen off the hour hand and freely moves around the dial like a hyper child. The clock that once displayed the time in his car has been broken from some time, probably during the previous owner’s tenure. He scans the radio for any mention of time…a scattering of advertisements hocking pointless endeavors at trade schools, hair removing and hair implanting remedies, and vanilla family-friendly chain restaurants...Clark finds nothing. He glances in his rear view mirror and tries to remedy what he sees. His hair is unflattering, a mixture of curly and straight, the color of strong coffee and very untamable. Ready for the onslaught of mediocrity the remainder of the day will present, Clark steps onto the brutally chilly sidewalk and immediately starts increasing his pace towards an eventual jog. It is only when he reaches the corner when he realizes that his car is unlocked and the keys to his car are being squeezed idly in his right hand. The lights change and the herd of cold and moist workers waddle across the street as Clark doubles back, cursing under his breath.