Recherché

I've always had this picture in my head, so I've said. Now I close my eyes and I see...

Of a little boy sitting on a ledge of a door in a dreary alley. No drifters, nor single hesitant passerby. He would be captured by the lightlessness of the deeply pregnant night, but for the bare illumination of a struggling streetlight. The dim lamp throws pale his shadow before him, his meretricious and lone companion in the belly of the dark. His head is bowed, his body trembles slightly, but who is around to hear his almost silentious sobs?

I watch... Yet I do not know why he is crying. Why is he alone? Why do I keep seeing this? Why is it that I know it is no real scene, yet... it grabs me so...

Again I close my eyes.

I see... nothing...

Just the boy crying.

Just his raggard clothing and beret pulled down low.

And so goes the whole scene. The boys unceasing weeping is the sole colour, the sole taste, the sole spice.

Teardrop by crystal tear run streaks down his face yet no stain comes to his shirt or the alleys dank floor.

His sorrow is everywhere. It is felt in the cold bricks wall on either side, in the stone beneath him... Where winds meets his laments lay. it alone stirs the still night air.

...

Just...

So...

Weird...

Its 3 o'clock and alls well...

G'nite


Another day...

The same as yesterday, and yesterdays past...

My tomorrows are my yesterdays and my todays are gone.