Monday, August 30, 2004

death has cold fingers

I leave the house, not getting ready. As i tend to do this day after day. but the city, she dont mind, and the scent seems to grasp the air with a flourescent sense of beautiful. and the people tend to stay away. The coffee shop is just up the street, and i have been going up there for a week now. and its the only friend i have. and the buildings are all leering, and the streetlamps dance, with a deathly delight. Ordering the usual i take it outside, with patio intact, i pull out a cigerette and continue my slow descent into death. and with my final puff, i repeat, repent, repeat.................