27th April 2009
In hope of finding something to write on, all I have is a pad of sticky notes. In hope of trying to keep my writing neat, I’m just failing, writing much like a font that I somewhat remember.
Oh hell, I laugh; using a few coins simply to purchase a writing implement. My hand smudges the words on an impeccable yellow square. We come to a halt and I simply wonder, do I keep going? Do I keep writing in tiny letters on small squares? Why is it so unnaturally quiet? Mother always told me I was quite a handful, and here I am, listening to my Anberlin; watching people carrying bags of goods.
The sun warms my feet, and I wonder how I can listen to the same tunes for weeks. Perhaps a bit too lazy, or too scared, to be like an epic freak and take out, this solid rectangle I call a Notebook. In fear that I’ll drop it, perhaps.
The sun ought to burn it, I ought to ruin it. My hand keeps smudging the ink on a square of yellow - Hell, why didn’t I bring a paper notebook?