The slush was high and dirty on the sides of slick, black streets. The sidewalks were shoveled every other thirty feet or so. The sun was out. The sunglasses were on.
Burning time at the burger restaurant waiting for a pariah bus on a line out to the "edge" of town had given him an excuse to slug a large coffee of ill repute. Finally making his way to the stop he looked at his watch to find fifteen of the heftiest and ugly minutes standing there, unconscious.
He made a move to scope the building who's dumpster represented the only landmark on the hillside, dwarfing both the marker sign as well as what he now realized was a person, standing, shuffling, waiting there. A familiar, from his only last bus ride out here, a plainfolk to him, hardly describable. A typical.
As he moved around the face of the building, avoiding the truck and courier fleeting around, he saw what was within: space. Empty space for rent, like the rest of the world. Too many places that they wouldn't want to be. What's to be done.
He continued, without halt, to the corner
On Xmas of 1992 my brother gave me this journal made of recycled paper with a twig pencil. I eventually filled it up sporadically up to 1995. I dug it out, dusted it off, and started looking through it today, May 6th, 2013. I've decided to reproduce the posts online. It's raw and sure to be embarrassing, but I feel enough time has passed that I can distance myself, yet find a very familiar me within these lines and perhaps find the inspiration to take up the pen again..... Thanks, big Bro.
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