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Before me, tables of persons, cups of coffee, smiles, conversation and possibility. Through the broad windows a sunbaked scene - summer's last stand, the trees have already given into the inevitable. The sky a dead blue. An artificial life fed by pretentious cuisine flourishes here as mushrooms in the manure-filled darkness of some basement.
Something draws us here. Something demands attention - is it simply ourselves? Or is there more here - is there something real? Outside it is no different - the city walls scrawled with my discontent. My only reality is dissatisfaction and unending restlessness.
When I allow the intoxication of interaction, I even in my stupor am aware of the impending sickness. It amazes to see others stumbling always - can they face the starkness that is the seasons unmasked?
Suppose then that I am bitter and empty from my inadequacies and unwillingness to deal with others and subjective wonderment. You may if you wish. I cannot