Recollection

Staring out of a train window. That is one of my favorite things to do. I suppose it wouldn’t make sense to a lot of people.

Faded orange couches, probably picked up from a yard sale or street corner somewhere, lay morosely in the center of a room. Along side them are handed down tables with scars carved into them and two lazy boy chairs, also faded. The kitchen looks rusted over like a ship at the bottom of the sea.  

Our days are  lazy but fragmented by occasional runs to the corner store and having to step over dead, frozen pigeons in the street, eating at diners, walking through gray slush, sleeping. 

Kegs align themselves all along the kitchen counters like soldiers and red plastic cups are becoming decorations around the room. Half empty, half full, somewhere in between. Smoke pours out of people’s mouths like extended words and hangs closely to them, taking place of their shadows. I keep to myself a lot that night. Maybe it’s the fact that I feel young. I am young. There are some conversations and introductions that are few and far between, slightly slurred and absolutely forgotten. I can’t tell you who I met. Does it matter? 3 a.m. and beginning to doze off and blend into the faded orange couches, leaning on other people I’ve never met for support.  

Staring out of a train window. That is one of my favorite things to do. I suppose it wouldn’t make sense to a lot of people.

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