The town I should live in is the one in which the person whom no one knows is the one you yearn most to.
There he scoped casually, knowing that he was doing nothing while exuding just that feeling through his heavy winter gear and odd-mirrored sunglasses that combined to shroud him completely from any seeker of a sign. His left hand snaked around to his left buttock, into the pocket to grasp his goal, and quickly worked it.
The spring fired a gleaming gold rod from its wooden casing, out through the top hole like a gopher to be clubbed in an arcade. It settled in his hand above the callus on his right index and it bit familiarly to the dead flesh like a carrion eater. He brought it to his mouth, quickly lit and quit, sheltering for only a second that which he currently believed invisible, if only to make it so, and then pulled it to the corner of his mouth and hid it from view with his hand; a gesture which seemed odd if not totally inappropriate.
One, two, three, then it was back to the hole, and the buttock, so he turned round the corner to spot the dumpster, the space
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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