There’s a band playing out on the highway, because playing out on the street is from seven years ago and you need to remind yourself you live by a highway, not a street anymore.
For once, everything is just fine, but you’ve gotten so used to feeling like it’s not that you can’t help but revert to the same rituals.
There’s a band playing on the highway but you can only catch loud snippets from over the honks of trucks and screeching cars, loud trumpets and shehnais sputtering disjointed tunes. It’s the broken reel of what you remember of laughing when the sun wasn’t out yet in the morning, of when you let the laughter and crinkled eyes hold you warm instead.
(my hands are shaking and my elbows feel weak)