and the glasses and Radiohead shirt trying to hide in vain so tenderly. The audacity of lingerie that can be seen more incompetent by a pair of pants, every evening, part-time at the library. That plaid shirt, the prettiest face ever sewn holding a fuzzy in the distance of another rainy night listening to Cat Power reveals bedtime.
It's Friday night, but this time La Rambla has nothing more to offer than a wet and cold in the bones. Back to the underground path of my dreary den. Rush Hour, I must be the one that goes into it for pleasure. The eyes of the world are fixed on the hardback book that girl, so orderly and sticker charts. Talk of numgrouper, but are written by hand. All the envy, longing to be able to make our own tangible book with pictures and colors that we survive and warm in winter. And while I hear the words purer than probably any other person has spoken to, I can not help but wonder if ever I stop feeling so empty and miserable with ease.
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