Choice
The wind is chilly. It brushes off of me in almost utter silence, but the vows of a filthy integrity it breaks ever so often speaks to me of a hellish paradise. It’s funny even, how the embrace of wind is a means of ingenuity, of a broken sanity that almost feels like getting better. As the leaves channel their inner turmoil with nothing but a woe of despair rebelling against the wind, the instantaneous satisfaction of fighting against it knowing that they are never going to win, do you wonder if winning was ever their purpose? The branches speak of desolation with every swift, with every roar across the road screeching in the darkest alleys, cars whose tires have travelled the sane reality of the world, the tremor across the bushes as it passes by, who gave anybody the right to experience something, or anything, or nothing? It’s a dumb perception, honestly. People walking in sweaters, the concrete below me steady and cold, and yet, in between the walls of a rusty room rests a sen...