bird shit populated the wind shield of papa's car this morning.
he was pissed not because the bird shit hardened like resin on the glass, but because he waited long in the queue at western union and got no money at all.
a lady who seems to carry oompa loompa genes, broke the silence down the subway by her shouting and panting ensemble.
she seems drenched in sweat but is clearly drowned in deperation.
"hey! (pants) hey! (pants) hey! (pants) don't close the door." she cried as she chased the train going to union station.
she provided an instant entertainment to the boring people who laughed at her. they think of her as a spawn of reality television shows prevalent in this part of the world.
the train doors slammed itself shut before her face.
she missed her ride.
it was tragic.
a fuckin' person who smells of the strongest curry powder with lots of onions sat beside me on the train.
he blasted the volume of his ipod as if seeking nirvana in its highest decibels.
the bollywood beats from his device tamed my drowsiness.
i continued reading middlesex.
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1 comment:
Such attention to outside detail in the middle of reading a book tells me that we read alike.
Guilty as charged, but still, we read.
Cheers Bulitz!
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