rambling still

Gorging like post-famine peasants at KFC. The 12 piece bucket. Three people.

Then the impersonal labyrinth of Salt Lake. A nod at my old pilgrimage routes. Dark silhouettes in shady nooks, away from the sullen glower of amber street-lights. After so many things had happened around a place (relatively speaking of course. No more than a flyspecked footnote in the true scale of things) one would expect a bit more than the everlasting sobriety of evening in a residential area.

Ogden Nash in my head. Some random meme must've put it in my head. And some other smattering of the evening spread out against the sky.

If we were to meet in this city, my old friend, after say 5...6 years. Odds are that we would still be walking down these unnamed roads or rambling down Park Street, speaking of much the same things as today. Half-heard confidences to the ghosts of yesteryear. A silent homage to distant summers that none now recall, to silent walks in the swift eventide of winter: little flecks of soulblood, congealed now, that tumbled away into oblivion as people went ahead with their lives.

Those tales never end. And remain the same. Only the folk in them change at times. Sometimes unnoticed, often unheard.

My pet peeve for the day remains the steady drain on equally jobless folk to take care of my rants during my higher moments.