regardless of where and which roads (write)i. so today we get together as per your request today you (at last) confess to me i watch you narrate the e.e. cummings you've kept chained in your rhythm, in your beats and paces and all other nooks and crooks and hidden places i've secretly always known existed i want you to start writing todayii. you tell me you believe in your ability to write the words i always knew you whispered; steaming at the hearts of other girls turning them to froth while i watch my own heart shrivel like dregs in the same cup of cappuccino i've always been drinking off droughtiii. i am sc
DisillusionedBlack streets in the dawning lightwe punch out dissonant tap dances in high heels grinding out freedomon the south side of suburbiawe remember the lost starsand wonder if we're just faking,or if our souls have curled up in the night and relinquished their heartbeats to the soundof the storms of traffic.Cultural obsessions hold bottlesof vodka, wishing they could feelthe bacterial cultures bunching in their battered chests.Hyper but flaccid we slump behind screens and pour out missives in broken englishpushing keys into our fingers slip sliding into madness and sadness, and when we die,we do it for the lulz.
The Passenger"Books are the plane, and the train, and the road.They are the destination, and the journey.They are home." Anna Quindlen---"
my endeavours should be directed to persons and characters supernatural, or at least romantic, yet so as to transfer from our inward nature a human interest and a semblance of truth sufficient to procure for these shadows of imagination that willing suspension of disbelief for the moment, which constitutes poetic faith." Samuel Taylor Coleridge---PART ONE: THE DRIVERThe C.A.N.O.N. Bus Company had been renowned for its patented use of characterised bus-seats since 1971, but Mrs. Gallag