Walking And Writing Of Walking

Feeling restless, I keep wanting to pull myself outside since the sun decided to peek out from behind the clouds. I don't know how much longer it will decide to last, but it looks nice. A sight for sore grey eyes.
I see the blue! The blue! The blue is peeking through!

This is how writing can teach you to stop writing and go for a walk.

I went out for a walk and made it as far as the corner of the closest coffee shop around and just up the street. A twelve-ounce americano to-go please. That will be two dollars. Okay and I leave to return the long way back home, two blocks around where the kid asked me if that was my car and I told him no because he was just-uh wonderin' out loud because the car right behind the one that wasn't mine, the one with the plastic bag for a passenger window, was his, and he suspected that the car he had thought was mine had been broken into too. He was just askin'. He didn't have much else to do. His car had the stereo ripped from it, and it's wire guts were hanging out. You could see the horror when the wind blew through and flapped the plastic back.

Money for crack! Gimmie that crack! Crack's in the corners of your mouth's tingling tongue salavation. Cracks in the sidewalks, where the mamma's break their backs, stealing car stereos in a frenzied crack-attack.

I expected that I would have walked longer and further away, but decided that reading in the sun in the courtyard of my apartment complex was still outside enough. I read like I was walking and grew tired of reading after I had read for awhile. I stopped to daydream, and dreamt myself returning back inside and sitting and staring at one nothing dot com after another. Sitting in the dark, wide-eyed, in front of a blue flickering light. A cold fire—pretty to look at, but failing to keep me warm. I'm hunching and slumping together to trap in the last of the heat before it is sucked all out of me. Look at me! I'm a frozen figurine!

A chill of wind wakes me just in time. Even my daydreams can feel cold as leftovers. I think to call a friend to save me from this electronically-induced hypothermia—to keep me warm and entertain my bones—but my phone is dead. Technology is high maintenance, but so goddamned sexy that we shove every inch of it into our bodies as much as we can till we feel like we still can't get enough, and there is still room for more and more and more.

Technology shows the hole inside us grows.

Once again I set off to walk and look for adventure on the same old streets. All over again, alone, and all over again and again. Maybe someone dropped something between yesterday and today that is still waiting there until tomorrow—to be discovered and forgotten all over again, or stepped over, without notice, at all or ever again.

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