The backyard tiki torch stands firm against the evening sky and its low clouds, swollen with winter moisture and the cold amber light of downtown. Looks like it's dreaming of the stuttering lick of a flame... remembering the pungent chemical sting of citronella in the air... mocking the fireflies.
Hang on, bruh.
You will have your moment, when the grill is roaring and the speakers are blasting polynesian lounge weirdness into the yard: Arthur Lyman and Martin Denny and all the best Exotica that a summer evening can stand... be patient.
It was a wild sky tonight: a giant dome of solid rust and blood and sepia. There's no color enhancement in the photo; That was it. Painted with a very wide, cold brush.
It was hollow and quiet and surreal, like an opium blanket over Washington DC, forcing everyone to shut the hell up for once, and go to sleep. I dig it.