What his real name is, it doesn't matter. Truth, a concealment, in which the guise of truth becomes even more important. Live by the rules and shave your face every day. Observe, learn, differentiate, dissipate. If a man's name was Charles, Eden, John, or Mr. X—he could embrace the senses. Forget your name and religion and what you know, listen to me. I knew a man that made walking down the street an alternate mode of transport, as opposed to the usual stroll or sexually enticing swagger. We ascertain logic through literature while making the rounds through the sequential order of obstacles in our life. Everyday is a reaction, or stumble and fall, if you will, to the timeless timeline of mortality. A baby is born and is afraid of the light and mourns the warmth of his home, her womb. We know the rules. For every one step forward we're taking two steps back, ignoring the familiarity. Time stands still.
It is not evident whether or not this man has a penis, he doesn't parade. Many say this is what makes a man, I live in a place where this is not the case. Rather than use his tool to please and partake—he's wielded ephemeral chasteness out of spite. Such a prankster…
I was perched upon some iron thing, reading a text, when my sun was replaced by some other heat-exuding source. The contrast of hard light only made a silhouette visible and as my adjusting eyes fixed on his face, he said, "You look like you could use a cigarette."
Of course, confused as I was, I just uttered an impulsive "Uh, excuse me?"
At that point, my mind had a moment to process the situation and I understood that I was not speaking to a bum or some kid trying to bum a cigarette off me. Four out of five people there smoked, I swear, and the thought of a person telling me that I looked like I could use one was like swearing at the rain. A common gesture, strange circumstance, however.
Normally, I would have expected an approaching man to mutter something cheeky and walk off but my prolonged curiosity almost provoked his decision to play out the first act. My god, what gorgeous shoes. He was dressed uncommonly well and so I just had to know what kind of conversation a bastard does business with in a garden with a girl. I only thought this kind of conversation existed in sacred areas of escape with the most closest of kin, but apparently not:
He sat on the iron thing opposite me with such pretense and whispered.
It is not evident whether or not this man has a penis, he doesn't parade. Many say this is what makes a man, I live in a place where this is not the case. Rather than use his tool to please and partake—he's wielded ephemeral chasteness out of spite. Such a prankster…
I was perched upon some iron thing, reading a text, when my sun was replaced by some other heat-exuding source. The contrast of hard light only made a silhouette visible and as my adjusting eyes fixed on his face, he said, "You look like you could use a cigarette."
Of course, confused as I was, I just uttered an impulsive "Uh, excuse me?"
At that point, my mind had a moment to process the situation and I understood that I was not speaking to a bum or some kid trying to bum a cigarette off me. Four out of five people there smoked, I swear, and the thought of a person telling me that I looked like I could use one was like swearing at the rain. A common gesture, strange circumstance, however.
Normally, I would have expected an approaching man to mutter something cheeky and walk off but my prolonged curiosity almost provoked his decision to play out the first act. My god, what gorgeous shoes. He was dressed uncommonly well and so I just had to know what kind of conversation a bastard does business with in a garden with a girl. I only thought this kind of conversation existed in sacred areas of escape with the most closest of kin, but apparently not:
He sat on the iron thing opposite me with such pretense and whispered.
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