Falling Hoja
<< 6:20 p.m. - Saturday, Jan. 17, 2004 >>
The dryers have stopped spinning, and clothes internal tumble to a halt. Exhale. The room is warm. I like it better when my world doesn�t quake and rumble. When the windows of my rib cage don�t rattle with bass. It�s beautiful. Outside, the sky with it�s marbled blue clouds. My mouth is silent and I don�t care. I�m a quiet peaceful automaton in the bus. Am I patient? Am I trusting? Who would have ever thought?