There's a lady outside and she's yelling in a high-pitched D minor. There's a single issue of Streetwise in her hand, possibly outdated, and she seems more intent on being heard than selling her product. Tom and Wes are outside and on their cell phones, pacing in respective time signatures, adding variations to their metres to avoid detection as the yelling lady introduces a few steps of her own. The whole scene is like a small parade of song and dance, with yelling into phones or at the top of one's lungs, with left hands holding electronics to the left side of faces and right hands frantically gesturing at people who are untold distances away.
And I'm inside, pouring my third cup of coffee in a robotic manner, like it's constant consumption I run on. That may be the case, I consider, until I'm wired leaving work and agitated upon my arriving home. And the shirt I'm wearing isn't mine but it enlivens my imagination with memories that are very much mine, that involved this shirt on it's previous owner-- an ex-girlfriend. And then there's that inconsequential line from that Tree of Life movie I saw the other night, "The chapter's closed; the story's been told." So I wonder if it's worth remembering things that are over, and if there are still messages and meanings that can be received and deciphered, and whether or not I should force myself to recount these past scenes from my life.
Tonight will be the fourth night in a row that I'll have gone out. Tomorrow will be the fifth. If I'm not careful, I'll be smoking cigarettes on Sunday night, too. That wouldn't be good.
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