One day I slowly floated away.

Let us talk about the quality of life for a wee moment.

“Do you realize when you talk, when you say something absurd that the intonation of your voice is just ridiculous?”

Adventures had at midnight on subways in frames of mind that are not to be seen.
Floor floor floor floor.
Lines on the floor. Cracks. The speckled bits, the cemented bits. Grass Grass…
There’s no grass, I’m just kidding. I’m in a city. Giggle.
Shit – STOP.

A single blackened entity is in town. It’s like a fair. A celebration of the individual. This individual – look at him there. He makes clocks for a living. Pocket watches with sliver engravings. Flip tops. For people to keep in their pockets. To have time in your pocket. Do you know what I want in my pocket? A dictionary.
The parade of mind it saunters down streets – LOANS for BUSINESS! HAPPINESS for TUPPENCE! Time, for the low low cost of 200 dollars. It’s art my dear, and it’s cheapened by the unimaginative.

Pay for art would you. You blackened individual on a city street walking east at approximately 5 pm. A person amongst masses. An every man amongst every man.
The thoughts are impeccable, the style is chique, your essence, envisioned by glazed eyes. Appreciation abounds for you my friend, my friend in the black Peacoat, with time in your pockets, the world is at your fingertips. For a price.

On subways during times of altered awareness it seems that everyone is in perfect forms of love. Sleepy eyes resting on shoulders, hands held, eyes looking, with intent. With agendas of affection. Each person a different story of un-waning wantonness. I don’t mean that in such a negative way – if I had a dictionary in my pocket perhaps communication would be more easily facilitated. Between you and me.
I remember once being jealous of streetcar affection, being unable to display it, being unable to have it. Being unable to be affected by it. Europe was a lonely long distance away. But now it doesn’t matter. Streetcar affection affects differently today. It’s more curious. These couples with stripped touques, holes in their pockets and shiny shoes and cleaned faces, they hold hands in mittens. They reminisce about hot chocolates and perhaps more serious details of houses with wainscoting and chair rails. Oh romantic chair rails. Especially when they are not painted white.

A unique individual has Ferris Wheels in “the” mind (‘The’ is not correct, but this is to be a sexless statement, and since we are a gender aware society there is no ambiguous word for person and I adamantly refuse to slap my ambiguous soul across the face with references of “it”) A unique individual, on dreary winter beaten streets, has magic in the mind. Ferris Wheels, apples of multiple decorations, cider, and bees. Minds are good at erasing the smell of oil. We are of a glistening unaffected view of the perfect fair.
A unique individual craves the tastes, the smells of quilts. Especially quilts with “old lady moisturizer” on the threads. Young ladies make them too. And mother’s to keep their children warm. Thoughts of mothers, sons and daughters disrupts this fair, and the reality of the bleak relation to all on these dreary winter beaten streets. People are not ghosts – though it is easy to think of them this way. Oh the happiness, at tuppence a purchase, and then sadness for a greater price yet.
It’s hard to watch the smiles of people who are in a state of remembrance slowly dissipate into something sadder – an awareness of being caught emoting.
Oh, to dance on the streets yelping a song or two. Propriety often breaks my heart.
We are. You know. So why can’t we be?

And: Yes, I know that my intonation, my inflection is mostly ridiculous. It’s because I emote. Often with difficulty and embarrassment. And so living life with my verbalized feelings is an adventure in multiple scales. But let's not talk. (Leave conversation to the stars of the banking district windows at midnight.)