2.2.05 [ In The Waiting Line; Tick-Tock ] 1 comments 
The cool wind wrapped her arms around me. She carries the thick stench of melted sewage: It shouldn't be spring yet, and it's not, it's just melty. The canopy is grays, from the asphalt to the concrete towers to the sky to hungry waves of the North Saskatchewan to the stubborn ruminants of this year's snowfall.
The wind grips tighter, a lover's last embrace. The only combat to her icy touch: turn up the volume -- a warm blanket of music.
I am in a vacant lecture hall. Playing to an audience of the dead. My fingers gingerly caress the colourless piano keys as though they had forgotten how -- trembling.
These moments of emptiness, thoughtlessness, longing pain, peace and fire. Stumble. Worthless confusion haunts me with untouchable melodies. So clumsy and out of practice! This is charades, not music.
Leaving: two hands smack together from an unlight corner at the back of the theatre: there are others who occasionally seek solitude as well.
The wind grips tighter, a lover's last embrace. The only combat to her icy touch: turn up the volume -- a warm blanket of music.
I am in a vacant lecture hall. Playing to an audience of the dead. My fingers gingerly caress the colourless piano keys as though they had forgotten how -- trembling.
These moments of emptiness, thoughtlessness, longing pain, peace and fire. Stumble. Worthless confusion haunts me with untouchable melodies. So clumsy and out of practice! This is charades, not music.
Leaving: two hands smack together from an unlight corner at the back of the theatre: there are others who occasionally seek solitude as well.
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