Inthegrips of yourSparrowinghands (or excerpts from)

As i look over the man gives me a wink in his all but dead face. his eyes are graves. and his fingers tap on the wood as if i am ever second closer to being on the six o clock news. Outside the sun falls through the clouds and warms the streets. and people do parade in an individualistic stereotype of one another. all is calm. the cold has subsided (somewhat) and the sun irradicates the clouds above. I start off down the street as the storefront windows glisten and glow and call me over. and in the corner of my eye the diner begins to show up. I pause for a bit, mull it over and decide maybe i should stop by for a appearance. Inside the seats are empty, the floors are cracked. and the fans whirrr, hum and try to make their way free. behind the counter a lady stands leaning over and bored. her skin is attempting to drop to her knees. and the sparkle in her eyes are lightbulbs in the process of going dim.