Sometimes I come home to the quiet shadows and the gathering dust on my table and I think, "where has everything gone?" The days are getting colder and my heart couldn't be anymore happier despite seeing the gloom and doom on the faces of everyone I pass up. The ladies in the office bitch and moan, and moan and bitch hoping for the sun to show its face again. God how I loath them. I spend the day engulfed in a series of sounds from the copy machine, the smell of old stale coffee and the flickering of the most boring fluorescent white, soul destroying light known to mankind. Yet I continue to click on my mouse and avoid eye contact with the the rest of the automatons engulfed in this space.
When the little hand races past the big sloppy hand, I run out of there like a bat out of Helsinki and I'm greeted again by smooth drops of dew that seem to turn into a waterfall as I make the trek to the jalopy. Who the fuck needs umbrellas when you're surrounded by the rain in October. I pause to think of what I just whispered, "Raindrops in October." It sounds like a cheesy 70's Burt Bacharach ballad. One that plays unnaturally in some dramatic film. Goddamn, Burt Bacharach you ruined Butch and Sundance but who the hell cares anymore?
I tend to drive the same route everyday because who cares for spontaneousness on the wet road? I know my brakes don't. As I turn left on Grand, my driver's side windshield sings to me in the worst possible way. No one has ever taught it to sing harmony with the raindrops. I pull over. I get out in the rain. I try to adjust the fucken plastic contraption. It only takes me 8 minutes and approximately 56 seconds. Remember, I said approximately. Thank god for inaccuracy. Let's find the freeway.
Roads become lanes, lanes become speedways, speedways become death to some, but not me. I take it slow and easy, choosing my lane and being loyal to it. Let an unsuspecting, arrogant driver get in my way and see how well I stare him down and kiss his ass. Yes folks, it's been suggested that I am an arsehole.
My city looms off in the distance and I see my guiding light, my fork in the road, my water tower that casts its shadow on the garage I live in. It is small and cramp but it is the only castle I need. I live with my books and thoughts and you need the special "password" to even get a consideration to enter. But I'm not one to be excluding. Not at all, I just hate the majority of people in this world not because of any false sense of entitlement I might have, oh no. I simply can't relate to 90% of this modern world with their modern hair and their modern faces and their modern music and their modern lives. But where are my manners? That shouldn't be a factor in this discussion. Here is the info you require ; the mysterious cipher is simply the sound of you make as you cut off your toungue. Ain't I a cheeky fucker? Cheers.