Friday, November 13, 2009

traceuses



Alors, je suis parkour.

Lingering upon the pillow 'til half-past eight, levering into paint-stained jeans and waterproof wear, scissoring through the neighborhood for an hour's span. Forty year old lungs and legs exchange easy greetings with hills. Churning through rain on an empty stomach gives length to stride. There is a brightness in the low-slung sky today. No trainspotting as yet.

The blue-handled snub-nosed shears resurfaced in the pocket of an ill-used coat last night. I fingered them as I walked with head down and soft curses past a house on fire.

The coffee's cold. The blink of cursor and seconds sounded on the wall clock synchronize. My heart keeps a half-beat pace behind. Rain sputters to a stop and lawn engines roar to life. The squirrel who regularly traverses the stapled fence pauses to rub muzzle against plank. The holly bush houses maple leaves and I must return to Tiberium.



"No object is so beautiful that, under certain conditions, it will not look ugly" - Oscar Wilde

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