It's a cool turbulence in the morning, when the clouds have purged themselves after such a wild night of carousing weather. The important thing is that the skies fought through it. And now it's ok, the storm is over and we can all go to bed in a tentative sunshine. The inherent morphine sweetness of sleep is edged with a rarer triumph.

We don't judge the boiling riot, we promise to forget the holding back of hair and the crouching on the tiles. These things must come before we move on. To be clean, the poison must be drawn out.

The air is sweet like a long shelved picture book, gentle as spring before the sun and humidity rise. Fire and rain, burn and sizzle, in this way sin is erased. The wooly combed out morning clouds and the proud patches of blue are as close as the world comes to a clean slate.

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