Toes pressed close to the white brick walls..
Fingers curled around grey criss-cross thatched metal bars..
My thoughts turn to what it must be like outside..
does not guarantee you silence from your co-inhabitants..
Mastering of ceremonies..
filth ladened comments on passers by..
It never stops.
Tiny grains of white hale bounce off the old brown glass
and little corners of ice are growing on the other side of
Nose pressed upon the dirt..
A small high-pitched whistling from outside..
Down below pea coats and North Faces are speed-walking
across the black shiny pavement, scuttling towards subway
stations, enclosed spaces, no attention is payed to the falling
white pieces of dust above and the white sky behind it..
But i guess it's to be expected.
It's busy out there..
a war of the words concerning one parties statement that an individual
to my right was consummated during his mother was on baking soda infused
Making him a 'Crack Baby'.
A subtraction of the comment was made
but there was too little effort to stir up any believable conviction..
They're probably gonna pop.
An I'm looking forward to being locked in my little toilet..