Saturday, 23 January 2010


Born under a strict sun, blond hair blazing like yellow anger.
Two adults stand among hundreds more, noise escaping through open turrets in their faces.
An orkester of light and sound, of pushing and shifting.
Thumping heart and clasped hand, screeching as best as I can.
Face reddened like volcanic matter.
Eyes on me.

'OOH', says he to her.
'AAH', says she to him.
As if it were all so easy.

Take your wisdom and present it to someone superior, I may have thought, if thinking was included in my catalogue of current abilities.
Lists of soon to be options are paraded like items on a menu to be ordered and received down the line.

'Can I return it if I choose incorrectly?'

No response is spoken...just a short, understanding left-right-left-right shake of the head.

So, since this laminated list has become something lost in the annuals of memory, I have no-one but myself to pin blame onto if life went awry, right?

Again, the understanding mute rituals.

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