The sky goes wild as the sun goes down, crazy technicolour that he wouldn't believe was real if he hadn't seen it night after night. It makes him wish for heavy paper, oil pastels and thick acrylic paint, luxuries he hasn't had since he had a life that could afford luxuries. It's not that any of them minds going to the red markets for things that are illegal in the black-and-white world, but things that aren't necessary for survival -- well, everyone learned to leave them behind a while ago.
Jet Star explained it once, the dust in the atmosphere, the particles of acid rain, hanging there to filter sunlight and paint the world. He said it was hard to capture -- film gets overexposed, and digital never quite got the richness of the colour, and tweaking it afterwards just made it look fake, because nothing like that could be real.
That was only once, though. Film is another luxury, another thing to slow you down, like names. So they just sit on a ridge of rock, some nights when it's still and clear and the waves are quiet, and watch the sun go down. It's the recording they can do, now.
Party Poison leans sideways, into Jet Star's warmth. It gets cold in the zones with night coming on, boiling to deep-freeze in minutes, it sometimes seems like. He feels like a lizard, growing sluggish in the cold. Jet Star wraps an arm around his shoulders and pulls him closer in, warm even through his heavy jacket. It's what they do.
The sky starts shading into the deep purple of night, and Party beaces himself to get up, to go back to their hidey-hole and get on with things. Movement is life, and art may be the weapon but these days it's mostly in his head. But Jet Star's arm tightens, holding him in place. He feels stubble and the brush of lips against his temple, just over the groove his mask strap has worn into his face.
"Thanks," Jet Star says, as quiet as the sky, as the stretch of dry sand in front of them. Then he lets go. Party Poison stands up and stretches out the kinks from sitting on rock, turns back to offer Jet Star a hand up. He searches for words -- he's out of ideas right now. Finally he settles on, "You too," and starts picking his way down the sharp slope of the outcrop. He can hear Jet Star behind him; they'll be back at the diner before it's dark.
You travel light; you get by.
(Sorry, this got more melancholy than I intended!)
Painted Desert Serenade, Jet Star/Party Poison
Jet Star explained it once, the dust in the atmosphere, the particles of acid rain, hanging there to filter sunlight and paint the world. He said it was hard to capture -- film gets overexposed, and digital never quite got the richness of the colour, and tweaking it afterwards just made it look fake, because nothing like that could be real.
That was only once, though. Film is another luxury, another thing to slow you down, like names. So they just sit on a ridge of rock, some nights when it's still and clear and the waves are quiet, and watch the sun go down. It's the recording they can do, now.
Party Poison leans sideways, into Jet Star's warmth. It gets cold in the zones with night coming on, boiling to deep-freeze in minutes, it sometimes seems like. He feels like a lizard, growing sluggish in the cold. Jet Star wraps an arm around his shoulders and pulls him closer in, warm even through his heavy jacket. It's what they do.
The sky starts shading into the deep purple of night, and Party beaces himself to get up, to go back to their hidey-hole and get on with things. Movement is life, and art may be the weapon but these days it's mostly in his head. But Jet Star's arm tightens, holding him in place. He feels stubble and the brush of lips against his temple, just over the groove his mask strap has worn into his face.
"Thanks," Jet Star says, as quiet as the sky, as the stretch of dry sand in front of them. Then he lets go. Party Poison stands up and stretches out the kinks from sitting on rock, turns back to offer Jet Star a hand up. He searches for words -- he's out of ideas right now. Finally he settles on, "You too," and starts picking his way down the sharp slope of the outcrop. He can hear Jet Star behind him; they'll be back at the diner before it's dark.
You travel light; you get by.
(Sorry, this got more melancholy than I intended!)