Days are scattered across hustled streets like kids outside the record store trying so hard to get your attention, forgetting why. We'd walk on sunlit cobblestones. The sun has taken our picture. A spot of blindness above you and I in the window reflection- I catch it as we sit around, drinking coca cola wondering how to kill what's left of time. You want to get some chocolates, I stay behind so you can tell me about the trip across the street. Today, this much is an adventure in small scale: worthy of a story. If you look close enough, you can find years, in a day. But so many days are desperate for euthanasia, willing to lay to waste hours upon hours on trifles; as if time was healthy and spry. Let's leave this town, and let every dying day out of its misery. Every day we will leave for the sake of returning with stories about the pigeon surrendering a rubber band for bread; or the chocolatier and the man with polka dots on his orange scarf, complaining about "the japanese." Would you let me waste a day as I waste all of these, now, waiting for euthanasia, medication for all this dumb arthritis I feel forming in my hands, to arrive in mere decades? Are the most important days forced into barricades, guarded by wasted nights, isolated on islands, surrounded by terror? I know it will have to snap for me to break away; but what will snap it; how far will I sustain the arc? Is there a land where every day is who I want to be day; where drunken nights are all celebrations instead of murders? I am tired of watching myself waiting for courage. Q: How desperate would I have to be, before I go? A: The woman who sold me my shoes. She is outside the store window, staring across the street, smiling. A week before, I had seen her pull up both stockings at the same time. I would wait forever if I waited until I couldn't. Let us make every day into three hundred and sixty five. -e. _______________________________________________ Five7Five mailing list [EMAIL PROTECTED] http://www.pairlist.net/mailman/listinfo/five7five
