Tuesday, April 25, 2006


I'm writing in a coffeeshop. There's a man in front of me, an overgrown hipster with a grey fauxhawk and a general air of british thuggery about him.

Next to me, there are a pair of older women discussing the elusive call of poetry --

"I suppose I could write poetry, but I don't have the inspiration."

"I'm not a writer in my deepest of heart, I'm not compelled to do it, but I want to express the feelings of pain and sorrow and regret, how universal, you know, to capture these things that everyone feels, but express it in a new way."

"I have some books you can read."

"That sounds like too much work."


They're overgrown goths. Awesome.

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