These days comprise all things superficial and transient.
Conversations about the hardships of life or personal
achievement do nothing but allow you to realise how
boring people become as they grow older
and how everything surrounds you is built to make you
insusceptible to such boredom.
Here between the clouds, my futile existence only
insist to live freely through memories of
conversations that allowed me to think things through;
words of musicians who sing about lucid dreams,
places with obscure names like 9th & Hennepin,
the remaining gypsies, and desire to be hung and be dead
and be gone,
and;
all the quiet places I've been to in real life and in dreams
where women paused in between their journey
to sing and pray in an alley, no reasons required, but
in my head, i'd like to think, that they were simply
celebrating being
alive,
just like that
under the bright yellow sun.
