Over time we talk ourselves into boxes made of tradition, taped tightly closed with sticky strips of habit. Our routines seal us into a bubble. A world.
And sometimes that world is dying.
Open a blue umbrella; practically perfect in every way. A nylon shield from terrifying fallout, gusty lift from the mortal morass, slow your foggy descent into the new yet-to-be. A pop, a hop, and you’ll be on your way.