Inner windows on the divine, a synchronous sea of mind. The metal so cold that newspapers help, why, if God knows that I’m here, does he leave me in the night alone?
“Guilty!’ they charge, As her own indiscretions fly to the four points of the compass with the shouting sound of her gavel. “She was dead? she wasn’t going to need it anyway,” for no better reason than a parking place – a truly infinite blindness.
Walking from bench to bench, news behind the wire all that I can afford. A struggle for cold from cold – under the trees are better. 2000 dead, almost a better risk than being here, but not alive – at least not entirely. But then, I’m not welcome, or so I’m told – no one tells me why.
Tough decision, spend the last I have on something to eat, or on a
place to get a shower, then maybe some kind of work that I won’t be turned down for. I choose to eat. I don’t bother with what little change is left over from that, it’s not going to be good for anything anyway.
I’m not sick, or tired, but I throw up anyway. I’m not sorry I bought food, even if most of it is now on the sidewalk. I’m supposed to be scared, but somehow I’m not, not in a synchronous sea of mind. A fortnight of five benches. Why, if God knows that I’m here, does he leave me in the night alone?
The Unruled