And that’s another big shot in the arm for the way that we glide and the guilt when we walk by; Pushing away because of what we believe him to be on the sides in a life framed in otherness.
I have a room, I have a towel, I have WIFI and a spares drawer. I move away from the sun when it gets in my eyes but you are forced to interface with a world that doesn’t want to hear it.
‘Him with his bottle, his shaking moves, making his way through a capital wreck. Look at him: buried before he died. Every day is the same. Him with his crying his poor eyes out, him with his dog in the same place.
Nothing is given or taken back, every day is the same: Quixota/Quixote…and it’s things like this that make me wish that one act was enough (‘of selfless harm’) In the name of our being realistic we’re all dressed up
in a disregard we’ve named as a fact of living. Empty out your bank account and burn your home. ‘and It’s been raining hard these last days, and the wet streets are easing
our retreat’ But I never forget a face and to the tune of my own footsteps leaving, my whole heart sang “wait, wait”.