magical realist wx

Clear skies tonight, cooler, with ☆∴｡　* 　･ﾟ*｡★･ 　　･ *ﾟ｡　　 * 　 ･ ﾟ*｡･ﾟ★｡ 　　　☆ﾟ･｡°*. ﾟ *　　ﾟ｡·*･｡ ﾟ* 　　　ﾟ *.｡☆｡★　･ 　　* ☆ ｡･ﾟ*.｡ 　　　 *　★ ﾟ･｡ * ｡ the eyes of angels filling the sky. They smell blood. They are coming.

Forecast: Cloudy with a chance of lightning electrifying the graveyards and briefly activating dead brains with memories of a life forgotten by the world decades before.

As the dead ready for their day some residents may experience discomfort as the veil thins between the worlds. Close your eyes. Breathe. That might not be hot demon breath on your neck at all.

Autumn welcomes with a pleasing slanted light, cool air, gentle rain, and Black-Eyed Kids staring from beneath every blood-red tree at twilight, murmuring wordless songs to invoke the coming darkness.

Humans shed 30-40,000 skin cells an hour. The wind is blowing an invisible tide of the dead against your windows. Hence the moaning in the eaves.

Let the great rains cease and the wild winds rest and the sun will rise red again tomorrow. In the pause between calamities, find out how much you cherish silence. Before the blood rains begin, that is.

Magnificent storms tomorrow night. Local streets will flood, buildings will catch fire from lightning and whirlwinds will whisper for you to come outside and ride them into the mystery.

Believe the Grace of a single cloud in the vault of the bluest sky in an April full of death and songs of mourning. Sometimes marking the weather is an act of self-deliverance.

The lightning is the champion of the sky and the revelation before the thunder. The hail comes slanting, driving, pitting, cracking. The wind is twisted in on itself in rage, giving the shuddering Earth orgasms even as it seeks to destroy. And the trees begin to bow, and scream.

Citizens are recovering from the Plague Time with exercise, with sexual congress, and with evaporating into glittering clouds of joyful tears. Beware the rain tonight. It has no joy.

A flock of lenticular clouds will disturb dreams early tomorrow, followed by clear skies, sun, and balloons that move of their own accord.

A slight chance of distant choirs singing in alien tongues overnight with silvery sobs of human mourning before sunrise.

Tomorrow will be a good day to garden your dreams with the screams of your prey, nursed by the melancholy roar of the thunder.

Humid tonight, with thunder toward morning. Glimmer Lamp Collectors should shed their skins and Ascend. Again. .

Windy tomorrow, but only on the emptiest streets, where silence is soulless, yet listening.

We keep tabs on the Western Whirlwind as it rages. The Service will issue warnings should it begin to speak.

The ice sleeps elsewhere now. Spring is ugly on the land with manic flowers. Tomorrow will be a great day to bathe nude in the sky and scare the neighbors.

The weather is returning. Tomorrow we will walk out of the Sun like hope and pain and begin sowing whirlwinds again.

The weather tomorrow will be suffused with sorrow but it also holds the promise of great joy, for on the next Tuesday there are expected to be at least a further ten thousand orchid bees in town.

The wind is rising again.

Storms all day today, with a low chance of tornadoes to the West and a high chance of Fire Tornadoes to the South. In the East, Whirlwinds of Bliss could kill hundreds with their unbearable ecstasy.