A message that departs from the main topic       
  Excursus
   PROSE > Smoke

...And the serpentine gray curls in front of him.

Why?

He does not answer. He cannot hear my thoughts.

He sits there everyday. Ashes of snow on his clothes, cigarette butts at his feet. Toes peeking through the burn holes of his socks. Now and again the metrocleaner sends him a sharp look but he is unheeding, as he is unheeding of everything around him.

Every day he sits there. In the middle of the park, crowded this time of the day. And he sees nothing but the gray in front of him.

He smokes.

Why?

He does not answer. He cannot hear my thoughts.

Copyright © 2004 Excursus. All rights reserved.