SHOOTING THE BREEZE After hours depleting at the office what a pleasure stumbling on the way home on secrets in the gutter, like a list which someone has lost, or even a poem. It's sad, however, when the notes we find stay inside us for too long like a girl shooting the breeze among blue feint-ruled lines where exclamation marks reign, and circles hot-air balloon above each j and i, reminding us of all we stand to lose in canteen queues and days among the files. So much life wasted trying not to be rude: Never getting to say smell ya later dude, no tree-carved words 4me 4eva. |