As it turns out, life is the cliche of a book I merely read about. I'm 31 years old and sleeping on a hard-wood floor next to a small pile of shoes and books, which represents all my things.
In Brooklyn it's sprinkling, but I'm breathing with the chartreuse curtains I just bought at the discount store. Around the corner, I'm sure someone is yelling at someone else; and, next to them someone is smoking whilst sitting on the damp stoop of a recently condemned youth center.
I love that I have a window that is all mine.
I love that when I shut my window it's quiet (aside from the sound of buses and garbage trucks).
Oh, and the sound of a trumpet. I'm listening to Chet Baker.
In Brooklyn it's sprinkling, but I'm breathing with the chartreuse curtains I just bought at the discount store. Around the corner, I'm sure someone is yelling at someone else; and, next to them someone is smoking whilst sitting on the damp stoop of a recently condemned youth center.
I love that I have a window that is all mine.
I love that when I shut my window it's quiet (aside from the sound of buses and garbage trucks).
Oh, and the sound of a trumpet. I'm listening to Chet Baker.
Comments
Post a Comment