Thursday, November 20, 2008
brick walkways are glazed the same way my eyes are from the sleet, and this Irish Cream and coffee. A dismal Thursday night. Not worth the ink my pen. I can feel the romance in this park. The love that's left it's mark here. The smell of sweet nothings whispered from the hearts of the soul-less and the souls of the heartless. Weather beaten, I've grown too comfortable being lonely. My engagements to my possessions are nothing more than my pathetic attempts at looking important to the pathetic. Chances are, I'll write this down. Make a quick attempt to finish this horrible concoction i've made, commute home, drink an over dose (or two) of nyquil, and wake up and do it all over again. now can you see where I'm getting at?
I caught the shower of petals and leaves just before the bus picked me up to take me home. Typical people. Typical conversation. The restless complaining, but rise bright and early to make sure they're miserable on time. There is a slight stench of stale coffee, and half smoked cigarettes. The grave like seats that we have jumped in are warm from the asses of the last batch of poor saps that rushed home to prepare their TV dinners in hopes the programming would be as satisfying. The fear I had that I would end up like this grows deeper with each pull of this yellow cord. Bitter strangers break my concentration on soaking in the scenery of the car cluttered streets that only soundtracks can explain.