The library. Always occupied by at least one person. Usually by that weird librarian.

“It’s all grotesque isn’t it,” he thought; it’s a distortion of some unnameable thing.

Fresh flowers, another day 

Devotion to the dying.

Stained glass, heavy-handed

pours out kaleidoscopic color. 

A veritable cacophony of sounds comprised of the clicking and shuffling of various shoes on concrete and asphalt.

I felt small. That’s the only way I can describe it. Small. Pathetic. Less than.

I never liked talking to strangers

Especially not strangers at bus stops.

But one day,

I met a woman named Dolores

Every summer I plead to go to the beach.

I wear my swimsuit fit for my body -although I'd like a new one-

and I pack in the car that we used to not have.

I saw an angel

Didn't treat him well

Backing off for his comfort

He left after I fell

I met her in August, 

when the sun shines too bright 

and my clothes sticks 

to my skin 

Cynic is my history

Diogenes' often quoted saying

A slave must rule one's master

And I'm obedient to mystery

“I’m dead, aren’t I?” 

Oh.

He was impossibly young, a child no more than 16 years of age. 

“Almost. Your heart has only just stopped.”