Lost books find new homes on coffee tables, red suede ropes separate the sea of party goers while poor pick up lines will always worsen with liquor. Remember the lullabies of the lonely ghosts. Homeless veterans who venture for coins, orphaned teenagers traversing on grimy subway tiles, and addicts daring to advance against the brisk wind. They are as real as the passion that swirls through your pumping chamber; the heart.
But these sounds, these sonically-charged confessions echo from a cove hidden on the shores of an impassible cliff. Unable to be discovered by eyes alone, that is the home of the soul. Within the tired eyelids of train workers and touring musicians rests this melody. It is also able to be found in gold-teethed dealers and braided pigtails bouncing in the first moments of spring.
Sitting window-side with my headphones around my neck, I pray that I don’t break this pair on my voyage. Where indeed will this journey take me? Another forty-eight hour excursion awaits me, but first it’s time to tackle this Dental Hygiene with my dad.
To my infernal creation,
My words may never reach…
Grand Central to 71st, 7 line.
Terror Tuesday coming in May?