I liked that I had shoes fit for the weather.
Inside a Starbucks the pleasures of cliché: new Ishiguro, cake and cappuccino. Pathetic lady waiting for her man. I didn't want to be seen dead in this unpoetic coffee chain; but I didn't want to die at home either, so I stayed.
Street kids drew penises in three strokes on the glass wall. Elsewhere in the canvas a heart, then letters that led nowhere.
No words, no sense, except from the book I briefly read.
The rain couldn't get a sound through the building, though it sure made its ice felt.
