sh hour, time to decide.
Time to rearrange your grumblings of the passers by who will do before lunch, before runges and the intersections brown to green; time to searching for the lost day.
We are fully, there is a side again later. a care.
Keep your head and reflect the make it all just so. were lazy in the day and that restful feeling the stairs. up, you don’t know where.
You have been there, burned off by the morning and whine from the east as the moon the courage you will need, for it, too, is under the stairs, though most of us and the other faces will be completed in time.
Tomorrow crashes across fields in the flourescent light that turns.
am I?
From into bed until it is this evening is still gray will be restless. sun.
Every evening no belt and wash your hands and in that question that you is possible today, all music that plays.
As I walk the only thing the snows of the arctic.
Isn’t it all the same anyway?
Yet, a place to meet and tomorrow evening, we the hall.
That radio time at the flashing color that illuminated, seen the looks on other faces, aye, each June they simply look at the place allows characterized by a color, new as yesterday’s dawn, and throughout the alley, besides look up from time to yourself out again into the grand.
Or does the front desk face executives, the bankers the evening.
You have heard the door never stops swinging or hotel or the “otel,” and the low light and no air.
Does the window few moments between ways next door, upstairs, down climb the stairs. better.
Is it tall, is it in the middle?
You have alley below, the dumpster and the conscious words to a different tune each May turn the brightest of forgotten glass without a blush.
Other times the light evening, home from work, seen the sanctum, ushered you and the puddle of the brick next door.
You have say silent, from the grayness. And yet some girl in just after the last of around the edges and gentleness, asleep in the streets scramble to get away the grayness filters in through the leaves a burning waiting to look like them, at the doors and windows. the window cracked and by the tallest buildings, in one such place and watch the rat ray echoes and you’ll be at the bottom of the stairs. the color, from blue to the food and drink.
Sit on them.
Streets pint of gray and brown and black, slows the step, turns windows and the bar room the swallow pint after
The floor is covered with remote streets again, the ones crowded in your restless state, for the trudge for the door. evening and the cold pallor is burst now and then in the steel that presses down up the till take notice of he’s lived in service to the owed these streets take and you will tear down the the yellows.
You have
(from t.s. eliot's prufrock by way of the stairs by jem.)
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