Saturday, June 19, 2010
On Tuesday he picks the flowers in his mind sprouting from a more aristocratic existence. He holds them in his hand, sitting as dilapidated as the armchair holding his shriveled form. His eyebrows dance in unison to a weary fugue, a tune he no longer remembers as much as the pretty girls he forgets to ignore. Their faces are whitewashed with empty respect as fake as their tans, but they smile and the curves of their merry go round features twirl him into belief. He remembers himself with dignity, dedicates his coffee to the preservation of this memory with each sip.
Posted by Hannah Neale at 4:11 PM