It’s humid… she likes it sticky and humid.
Who would ever get inspired in the stickiest air, in the darkness, where the smell of old papers seldom becomes unbearable, and when the rest of the world lighting up their tobacco sticks, then sipping on their by-now empty glasses… Oh, the coldest liquids crawling down their throats at the corner bars, while getting all burnt inside out by the warmth of the May sun.
She, who sees the innocent faces in their blue carts, smiling at the strangest strangers in their eyes… she, who sees the elderly ladies, getting offered reddish seats by high school kids… and she, who sees the same guy, begging for a loonie to feed his drunken thought right after the sun fades into the darkened night… Yes, she still gets energized by many souls around and reminds her own to love the world more than the past.
The clock at her stop reads 5:36 post meridiem… It’s still humid and she likes it pretty humid!
S
