The morning is bleak washout grey. Featureless, directionless, as if time has stopped, as if the world peeked out its bedroom window but retreated under the covers, uninterested.
I woke up at 5 a.m. and couldn't get back to sleep regardless of how tired my body was.
A shaky journey on an old train that should probably be an exhibit in some transport museum. Lifeless landscape rolling by like faded ribbons.
A man has a book on Photoshop 5.5, but he is really trying to read the newspaper in the hands of the guy next to him.
The overwhelming sweet sickly smell of someone's strong perfume.
A woman who thinks thick bright purple eyeshadow is a good look.
Humidity makes my skin weep; my mind, my heart, my soul flutter elsewhere.
Posted by sniffles at November 23, 2001 08:39 AM