An amber serpent lay bellydown on the horizon, hiding amongst the mirros of skyscrapers. A shallow soup of cigarettes ends and gasoline slithered into sidewalks, previously punctured by a threehole punch. Those unnoticable percussive steps walked into steam fumes and smoke, belonging to a lanky man fluffing a pillow of visible air. So continued another day in the anonymity of the city for the subculture socialite. Slink into the coffeehouse, my son, feast yr snake eyes upon this beautiful city, for yr luck is up.
And so he thinks as he does, walking to the counter to order another cappuccino, sitting alone for it is dawn, and takes a drink. Cappuccino, that sublime source of morning awareness. A purposeful blend, the steamed milk brought into calm the bitterness of the bean. It comes in a slow lanquid rush, how can you perceive and control the act of thinking? He raises the cup in a toast to itself. An offering, before the Gods, as for me, but first for you.
His rest is laid belly down on the bed in his room. He's hiding from the mirrors that recall his physical doom. A canister of cigarette ends on the linoleum slinking on the floor. Carefully placing the thoughts of the day in a three ring binder. One last cigarette before sleep will come. He takes to the sitting position. For a final moment, He's fluffing a pillow. There it was. So ended another day, with nothing special; Nothing more to say. The subculture moves in time with the clock. My moon, I say goodnight to you. Upon this beautiful city, I cast no blame for the lack of progression sane.
And so he closes his eyes, in an impossibly empty bed. Laying alone for it is done, and goes to sleep. Conciously, that nighttime source of dreadful mourning awareness. All that remains is the taste of whole milk warmed to calm the bitterness of his dreams. In this reserved sleep he can still feel it pounding. Knocking on the door. Finding it's way into his chamber, like raven. The distant moan and cry. A suffering, before the dawn, as for him, and also with you.
