sometimesaway

Wet dark days filtering round the ankles and ears. Time is slipping with pre-winter force-fed into demonds and death. Neither of which care much for life past today. Something in this air has the backside of me perked up and out, that part that can't look behind me for all the looking forward.

Throne rooms must be such lonely places, with hollow sounds ringing out for all the shouting. It must feel like boys in deserts singing songs for women in mountains.

Today I put a bit more faith in a faithless temporary disaster that I can only call a vehicle. The familiar stink of it's decay comforts my sense of predictability.

Older men in fasionalbe eyeglasses oggle the ladies behind the counters while sipping warm latte's and pretending to be singular. They play themselves into plastic chairs that appear polished. The rain beats the sides of the windowpanes, and the single difference between this place and that is the age of the bullshit filtering down from the clouds.

Teen barristas are here for aged wizards, aged barrista's are there for teen wizards. A wise guess is that youth still means the opposite of death everywhere you are when you speak it.

The singpost on the road forcloses any deciet I may have for you. A company of strangers pass my feet. Program this as the day I arrive inside myself to spot you.