White Noise
When you come from a place where the sun is always shining, no one expects you to be familiar with cold darkness. All you know is unrelenting yellow pouring over the sloping hills and punishing heat that cooks the gleaming marl-rubble streets beside your wooden house. When a Rasta man makes his way up the hill, gunslingers crunching against the marl, you decide you agree with the lyrics blasting from the boom box perched on his bare, sweaty shoulder.