I have this notion that the sky sees us as its own sky.
Sometimes it views us as storm-sullen with our riots and hate-mongering.
Other times, we appear sunshiny with our lovehoney buzz and thousand-watt optimism.
Sometimes the sky sees us as different cloud patterns: artists, stratocumulus; nihilists, nimbostratus; children, cumulus; the elderly, cirrostratus.
The sky views our city traffic as shifting cloud patterns containing different images—castle, dragon, dandelion;
it all depends upon the hour of day and which way the wind blows.
I hear that on certain occasions, you can marvel at the bright blue above and witness it admiring you.
Imagine that, seeing each other as one another’s beautiful dreaming sky.