lmfs (maybeyoubiteme) wrote,

notebook stuff

I sat at a desk in the very back of the top floor of the library, alone and pretty cold. Pencils and pens and what looked like small instruments for cutting had come before me to announce that certain people (and their mothers) were capable of giving one a good time, and even left phone numbers so that interested parties could call and ask for these talented individuals.

I took out my pencil and scribbled:



I wonder what it means that I am left standing at the crosswalk , when everyone else goes. The hand is red, folks. The hand is clearly red. I [am going to] wait until I'm told it's ok to go. What gives them the right to be so bold?

I walk through the plaza and everybody's head's pointing the same way, we're all making for the same place, the streeet corner, and the boy that brushes past me smells just like New Orleans, I swear, sweat and incense and stolen hotel soap. I say to myself, "Can we go can we go can we go?" But we will not go, we will never go, and I can feel it now, deep to my toes, we're here, it's time. We're grown-up. Here on the street corner, with your life looking right at you from a black box, is the paradox they told us about when we couldn't reach the candy in the jar. "When you grow up," they told us, and they didn't smile, "when you grow up you can do whatever you want, but you won't be able to."

"What the hell does that mean?," you'd say to yourself, only you wouldn't say "hell," because you were six. Well, now you knkow. It's the most unpleasing thing you've ever seen.
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