Cold and wet... As raindrops on the glass collide and disappear into delicious moistness.
So many seats on the bus yet the elderly man drowning in Old Spice feels compelled to experience my nearness. As if only one church pew away, the saturated silver hairs mock me as if to say "linger in my scent, as I am the nectar of the gods". I am not convinced.
My own hair tells a story of abused hair products purchased on impulse - chosen only for slick packaging and no real substance. I am the quintessential consumer... Though I don no glittering gold today.
As I sit in an unshaven, disgruntled state of sloth I wonder where the future will take me... As I pull into Mountlake Terrace. This has become tedious and tiresome. I can see my drivers profile in a carefully positioned mirror. He seems unamused. I see him as my own personal Jean Dixon. What will the future hold, Jean? Oh, and here is my bus pass.
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