Walking through these streets, Brooklyn New York, late October. There is a soft breeze blowing cool air, a lady walks her dog as she smokes a cigarette, a car alarm is blaring somewhere in the distance as the trees slowly, methodically rid themselves of the leaves and dreams of summer past.

October sounds; squirrels climbing rooftops, birds calling out songs and the chalkboard sound of the old man raking in the leaves.

A man walks across the street, staring down and then looking up. Looking within and then looking about; as the dreams of a long forgotten spring are amassed on the sidewalk by the old man.

O time, it stops and just goes forward at a pace we can never control. The seconds hand keeps on moving no matter whether the clock breaks or slows down – aint no controlling time in these times.

Gray hairs begin to accumulate as the darker strand seems to disappear – strength begins to be measured as will while the physical begins to fade.

Sun rises, sets and then begins once again. No death has ever stopped that from its dance.

I walked across the park towards the street to make my way to the platform where the trains come and go. I walk towards the platform and onto the train that takes me to my work space. “Cubicle mania – I wonder if that’s a legitimate craziness. Suppressing ones natural feelings and need to freedom and expression  - into staring into a screen and keeping ones voice down.”