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July 20, 2005
A minute pebble wedges itself between foot and shoe, slicing through veins that ripple into a resignation. Steps fluctuate across faded pedestrian lanes, beginning with a futile glance (in the wrong direction) for cars that are as alien as the disembodied voices on the other end of the line. Nights are littered with question marks and mornings are merely commas punctuating sunsets. At 4 a.m. there are no buses yet that will bring me home. I have seen hues of blue that I never thought existed. But wonder never left the delayed surprise (that it can still be felt) at the slight discomfort from the insistent grain of stone. Every craned neck is hope gained then lost with each hint of a headlight collapsing as it reached my line of vision. And the way a pebble becomes a well of sensation, waiting becomes a thread unconsciously woven to illusions of open arms. blue rogue |