natterr
Waiting for the train, I see the faces of the people around me.
Under their eyes rest the monotony of their careers, pulling down their expressions. Suitcases in hand, the men force themselves to stand up straight because their rusty smiles aren't strong enough to do it for them.
Livelihood is dead in this underground station, and these hopeless slaves to their jobs await a light at the end of these streaming tunnels, attracted to the subway lights like flies with the faint hope of salvation, only to be zapped into reality as they're driven away, into the tunnels,
into the darkness.
The lanky man sat at his typewriter, staring out of his window and looking to the depths of the city. Mounds of mistakes were crumpled and tossed onto the floor. The writer's life was a bleak one, but the man had high hopes for himself. But optimism is a poison that conceals realism.
The lanky man sat at his typewriter, staring out of his window and looking to the depths of the city. Mounds of mistakes were crumpled and tossed onto the floor, and he scratched his neglected beard that began to grow wildly on his chin. The writer's life was a bleak one, but the man had high hopes for himself. But optimism is a poison that can eclipse realism.
Smoking is wrong. Cheating is wrong. Torture is wrong. Abortions are wrong. Starvation is wrong. Domestic abuse is wrong. Greed is wrong.
Standing here, oblivious, and letting it all happen is detestable.
Under the sheets, I can feel your ice cubes of toes wiggle about. You're waking up. God, it's wonderful. You stretch your body out, but retract and curl back in. It's too early for you, and you want to fall back asleep.
But I'm awake. Seeing you move is electrifying.