My feet touch forbidden blacktop about 30 feet from the crosswalk they prefer you use. Behold my only act of rebellion today. My small way of setting fire to the world. Really, I'm just impatient.
The roasted duck soup left a strange taste in my mouth like cruel words. The cold air feels electric and helps to push me forward. Up and down the avenue I go, resisting the pull of each passing bar and warm thoughts of good rye.
Hear me now; I long for nothing. Not for love or understanding. Not for pity or prayer. I have accepted my nature. Born to wander. Born to wonder. Born to sit in the burning room