I sat there on the bench, watching the pool of water on the cold concrete below shimmer in the evening sun, a small whisp of steam rising into the air before my very eyes. “What a sight” I thought as a lazily glared at the american beauty moment. Sight. I exhaled. The very concept had taken on a new notion for me recently. A personal hell.
There was a fog that morning, though it seemed to take place moreso in my mind than on the cold concrete I could see outside the building. Such a depressing place, and all I can look at is a fucking parking lot. A noise cuts through the translucent robe of all factors unknown, and thus to my ears.
The door.
I could not see her at first, but when I finally could make out her image, I was somehow rewarded with the memory, fog far removed. Her eyes fell down upon me and the weight was too much to bear, I fell to my knees.
Her eyes flash the exclamation points which reside close to home. They will stay with me always.
A scar for my brain, some'll say it's cool I suppose.
They are the handles for my sanity; they prove the other side was vulnerable. That I haven't gotten jaded, a statistician for the rolex narcolpsy cartel.
Still, I’d walk down Feemore street at 2 with the cash and a neon sign.