When the flakes just fall so slow and big that you can tell which ocean they originally evaporated from. And the people’s heads all tucked down into their scarves, the lucky ones, the smart ones, the ones who are even actually enjoying it all, or the crazy dishwashers and businessmen and ghetto boys walking around in t-shirts or thin long sleeves, like they have nowhere to go that matters so why get there in any comfortable rush?
A whirlwind effect pulls the same flakes past my window two or three times before they ever make it to the ground. Cars are being parked, coffee is brewing, tectonic plates are no doubt shifting somewhere. A man in an all too tight sweater and fringe hair benefits at least a decade past their prime remarks that if we sucked all of the coal and oil out of the ground, there would be no more earthquakes. He goes on to say how he and the President are kindred spirits, a “you fuck with me I fuck with you” mentality that’s obviously had him beaten senseless enough times to make him nearly retarded and look the part in his eyes and lips. If ColdPlay wasn’t on so perfectly loud and sending me memory daydreaming I’d probably understand the weight that people like him bring to the world and realize I would be remiss not to do something.
So I do, as the music stops. Write and smoke and tea.
Up Next: Sounds in a Certain Order