Down the Rope

Feels like a thousand and a gray sky full of them.

Waiting for a few blue lines for the more-than-enough-th time. Pain in the bones for the empty days and then what? Then nothing. Blue card, blue curtains, blue lines. Blue nothing.

Not really here though. There’s something in the back of our minds, saying we’re in the nipping cold of the side street again. Behind some strange looking bronze figurines and a busload of strangers. There’s the wind again. Who was it who said that? “No one is anything.” Oh wait, I remember. I need to read the whole thing sometime soon. Perhaps it was wrong all this time. Pencil, pen, paper again. Remember November with an hour to wile away, tucked beneath some red-brick building. It’ll always be here.

It goes again. Like the dip. And a myriad of happenings on the other side of the coffee drinking glass. More scraps of paper dotted with black spots and what-nots. “There goes the sun” – yes, past tense. Wonder where it went but the sky’s a lovely shade without it. The sky’s a lovely shade with it too. Hell, it’s lovely always.

Back to the blue lines and how to make some sense of it. It’s not a verse sometimes – can’t go about it the same way and mark it up with pen and whiskey. It goes through my brain and your brain and his brain and her brain and what do you know?

We’re all just the same.