Confused seems to be the new grade. i've brought it home on my report cards for years and yet never allowed it to dampen until now.
It would appear to many that i have lifted a new blank page from the books and flailed around senselessly, finally resorting to casually disembarking the book on an outward passage through the plate glass window of the 19th floor apartment. It doesn't scream on the way down, primarily due to the complex fact that it knew in some way or form that this day would come eventually.
(Across the street, an old man sat on a park bench, feeding popcorn and alka-seltzer to the flocks of pigeons he attracted. He watched the book's swan dive and unapologetically smiled inside: also so disenchanted that he too gave himself coal in his stocking labeled "Dreams.")
i don't smile anymore for them; makes me sad inside, i guess, because one day we will be old, carry our canes arthritically and look for and reminisce about each, but who knows if together.