I would prefer not to

Should I still feel alarmed when the sky has turned red? That's not what I wanted to write about, it's what's happening. Maybe being inefficient on the material plane is my last ditch attempt at self-preservation somehow. The slow down, work stop. All these wordless contracts, invisible cords between us, holding the structure in place. I would call it love, that could be sweet. Very love story, madness and romance. Poetry almost. Lighting fires to keep frost from the vineyards, that the vintage isn't lost. Wrestling passionate to the ground, sex in the newly plowed fields. Arm in arm on the way to the harvest festival. The view from above in a hot air balloon. Any and all of these things together.