Clouds

I got me this new job working for a man who sells land on clouds. It's a pretty good gig, and I do a lot of traveling.

Like, yesterday I went out to appraise a cloud hovering over West Seattle, and I thought it was a fine piece of airborne real estate. So I called my boss, and I gave him my estimate, and he put it up for auction.

And it sold nice and quick.

Land on clouds is what they call primo. It sells nice and quick. Houses are built on cloudland as quickly as can possible.

Families move into homes built on clouds minutes after the home is built.

And then they have to hurry through a lifetime of living—a whole lifetime full of all that living one is supposed to do when one is a homeowner with a family and a dog or cat and a car and a job and all that other stuff.

Families live their lives as fast as they can when they live on a cloud. Because before you know it, the cloud will blow out at its edges, go soft and slack. A cloud lets go of its ends. And then the new ends and edges blow. And scatter. And drift.

You have to live your life—your whole damn life—in days. Because clouds twirl and blow and disappear.

And your house falls to the ground. And your dog or cat runs away. And your kids go to college. And you retire from your job. And you die. And the cloud is gone.

I work for a man who sells property on clouds, and I spend my days traveling and appraising.

It's a good job. It takes up all my time.

I don't have time for other things. Like family or fast living.

Or blogging.

***

This post is dedicated to mammatus clouds and a band called Mammatus.

***

Also, if you would like to illustrate a post on The Man Who Couldn't Blog, email me.