I'm writing you today, to tell you all about the story of a man that i once knew.
I can't recall his name specifically. All i can tell you is that when first i heard about this person, it took me a while to even feel as though i should even remotely give a care.
In any case, i don't even feel like talking about this dude anymore. I can't even remember why i brought him up the first place.
What i should probably and truly bring about as the main topic of this paper, is the stunning reality of an effortless instigation, made fruitlessly uneven.
As a token of my amazement in regards to what i've just pointed out, allow me to remind you of the belligerent people that have become, on the eve of their last day, hindered by thoughtfulness.
With all due respect to grand creativity that is always welcomed by the insightful train of thought, i should probably relinquish one more final sentence that ends abruptly with this simple word.
By the looks of it, through the tattered window of a poorly painted fourth floor apartment, the day ahead, announces itself rather bleak and without any possible circumvention.
Wait, no. That was not the purpose of this random expulsion of words onto paper. No shallow description should be allowed at any given moment. I feel that i should not attempt to put in context of ambient moods or define situational explanation. I prefer the abstract display. Does that make any sense to you?
Hopeless, helpless and trivial. A slight warm up of the fingers; prior indication of the brain to make up its mind and allows for the more important insights to fend off insecurities. The smell of ink has always caught my attention. Even more so, the scent of fresh print. Equally alluring is the compelling perfume of used books and the towers of them, all the way to the back of the store. I will always associate milk boxes with used book stores. Chapped lips and nicotine yellow fingers. Torn carpet and jazz music from the cheap speakers behind the counter. Humid, cold and dusty smell from the uneven floorboards.
Does this make any sense? When have i lost any track of time? Why does it feel as though i'm constantly surprised by vague moments of familiar doubts? Haven't i done enough time, in search of what is convenient and respectable? When is the next bus out of town and the pungent diesel release accompanied by torque and downshift? Does that make any sense? Lean back into the moment and don't be such a control freak. Exhaust. Pretend the seat grants comfort.
