The silhouettes of brushy trees against the opal evening sky, partly crisscrossed by trails of airplane smokes and gangs of pigeons making for homeward where could be, the monotonous routine but of so much priority like cognitive inertia lets us behave ourselves to its tune, the silhouettes of brushy trees against the opal evening sky some time after the sunset in a corner of Notre belle France. And, when I notice it in a parking lot buzzing and teeming with vehicles outside a supermarket, I've been composing this sentence in my head, now seemingly coming into a tight shape, now loose until I can make it thus by dealing with it in the form of letting my fingers peck over the keyboard of my notebook. (Sorry I don't have the timely awareness to capture the scene with my phone camera, to deck out this post.)
