Dé Sathairn, Meán Fómhair 22, 2007

When The First Icy Sunday Comes

And you hate the quiet, and you think of all the time you wasted in the summer, and all the time you've wasted in your life, and the coffee only makes the headache worse, and you are the last one left, and it's all over now, because nothing is established, and the ones who come after won't care, because no one has done what they are doing before, this is what the end is, this is what it is to age, grown, with nowhere left to go, and nothing to please you.

She died in the afternoon, more appropriate than the morning, she never had anything to
during the days, but she always loved the morning, and she loved the night.

But she didn't sleep, and she was restless, and you were supposed to keep her happy, but she couldn't concentrate, find balance, find what she liked the most.

She liked you, probably not the most though. And she got bored with you too.

You could go to the cafe. But their will only be two or three there on a cold morning like this. Not enough to blend in, and they will know that you have nothing to do with your days.

The times never change, only the places do, but your places don't change, your mind drifts, and than you are bored, and than you are tired, and you were going to go today, but

When she was bored she would rage, and it was so disgusting, so childish, absolutely horrible and manipulative and shattering, and you knew you would be in bed before the hour was out

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