"Dark gray clouds hung low in the sky. It was good walking weather, and a relief to be free from the still steamy sidewalks of the city."
The coffee was bitter. The subway was late. This book was obviously trash. Not a good way to start a morning. Sharon Combes. Jack imagined her as low and lonely, probably with cats. But then again, that's how he imagined anyone he felt particularly sorry for. She'd obviously never been out of the city. He discarded the book, his coffee, and his sorrow beneath the bench. Perhaps someone would come along who needed them more than he.
7:08. Seven oh eight. Why was six afraid of seven? Because seven ate nine!
Had he fed the cat? Of course he had. Careless he was not. There are few people you can really count on. None actually, once you consider what they expect in return. Take take take. That's all they do. Even the cat has expectations. People are lousy.
"Fuck you," said the wall. "Beck loves Anna (but you're alone), Jesus loves you (but you're a sinner), Call 555-867-5482 for a GOOD time (but you don't have the time)". Jack didn't feel like listening. That's another problem with people. They never really listen. They nod and smile and make response- synthetic, all of it. Social sounds. More expectations. (Conform, will you?!)
And so everyone gets caught up in who can speak the loudest and longest and most precisely and raise the most capital and make the most profit and have the most connections and the nicest flat and brag, whine, noses to the grindstone work work work to make it big and finally be happy and tell everyone how happy they are but no one is really listening to a word that is said and everyone is drinking bitter coffee and smiling and-
The coffee was bitter. The subway was late. This book was obviously trash. Not a good way to start a morning. Sharon Combes. Jack imagined her as low and lonely, probably with cats. But then again, that's how he imagined anyone he felt particularly sorry for. She'd obviously never been out of the city. He discarded the book, his coffee, and his sorrow beneath the bench. Perhaps someone would come along who needed them more than he.
7:08. Seven oh eight. Why was six afraid of seven? Because seven ate nine!
Had he fed the cat? Of course he had. Careless he was not. There are few people you can really count on. None actually, once you consider what they expect in return. Take take take. That's all they do. Even the cat has expectations. People are lousy.
"Fuck you," said the wall. "Beck loves Anna (but you're alone), Jesus loves you (but you're a sinner), Call 555-867-5482 for a GOOD time (but you don't have the time)". Jack didn't feel like listening. That's another problem with people. They never really listen. They nod and smile and make response- synthetic, all of it. Social sounds. More expectations. (Conform, will you?!)
And so everyone gets caught up in who can speak the loudest and longest and most precisely and raise the most capital and make the most profit and have the most connections and the nicest flat and brag, whine, noses to the grindstone work work work to make it big and finally be happy and tell everyone how happy they are but no one is really listening to a word that is said and everyone is drinking bitter coffee and smiling and-
7:09. Seven oh nine. The number 26. Jack gathered up his book and coffee and got on board.
*This inspired by an earlier work by an acquaintance titled "there was more to jack, but nothing worth discussing too much.."
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