index | archives | notes Monday, Aug. 01, 2005 5:24 p.m. << [ That Shiny Thing That Scars do in the Sunlight ] >> What's the point in even being poetic anymore? It doesn't matter to you, so it's worthless. That's how this game works. I freaked out the other night and walked a mile to a bridge to watch the sun set. When it was finished, I sat for a while longer on the side of the road, a nondescript figure in a black hoodie (a hooligan, no doubt). Only one person stopped to ask if I was okay. I think she was a girl from my class, and I think she did not recognize me. I walked back to my old elementary school. I sat on the bars outside of the counselor's office, where we used to sit before everything went sour. I called him on my cell phone and apologized. For what? For sticking around? For fixing things? How dare I. But I apologized, and I left, because honestly, elementary schools at night are kind of depressing. All the whores, drug abusers, miscreants come out. Even in the suburbs. << | x | >> whatiscopyright.org