bashmentbyrd
A brief encounter on the street. I knew him from somewhere. Perhaps a party I was really drunk at. Perhaps a previous job where he was in another department. But either way, I remember his jet black hair, short enough to see his scalp, and those graying eyes. Intense, vivid, yet cold. He was a strange character, yet I couldn't help but have my interest piqued.
The noise and the racket and the cacophony kept me up at night. Nights that mother wouldn't return home were the best. I would lay in bed and hope that the racket would be over for good. But it never was; for some reason she always came home and it would all start up again. My father was a tired, tired man, and I pitied him. I knew that I would never want to end up this way, with this noise, racket, cacophony.