hophead

People rarely seem to speak to me. They mostly speak to a false, or at best incomplete, idea they have about who I am. This reminds me of a drunk throwing punches at a double image he sees in a dark barroom. I stand there feeling sorry for them and for myself for our mutual isolation. Occasionally, I try to step into their words and feel them against me, but I cant. We are sharing space and time, but I still cant. The sounds slip through me as light through a windowpane, and the meaning of the sounds is strained out by pretexts long before that, so that I am not even warmed by them like the glass in the window...