41 acessos
Routine was the theme. He'd wake up wash and pour himself into uniform.
Something he hadn't imagined being.
As the merging traffic passed he found himself staring down at his own hands.
Not remembering the change. Not recalling the plan.
Was it?
He was okay but wondering about wandering.
Was it age by consequence? Or was he moved by sleight of hand?
Mondays were made to fall. Lost on a road he knew by heart.
Wrapped in the same old walls. It was like a book he read in his sleep. Endlessly. In his sleep.
Sometimes he hid in the radio watching other pull into their homes.
While he was drifting.
On a line of his own. Off the line of the side. Bye the by.
As dirt turned to sand. As if moved by sleight of hand.
When he reached the shore of his clip on world he resurfaced to the norm.
Organized his few things. His coat and keys.
Any new realizations would have to wait.
Till he had more time... more time...
Time to dream to himself. Waves goodbye to his own self.
See you on the other side.
Another man, move by sleight of hand.