Sunday, July 12, 2009
Like the ideal that God should have been, he sits perched on the thirteenth floor, by the window, unflinching. With earphones on and eyes transfixed, he sits. With tufts of white hair all askew, he sits. They are dignified tufts of white hair, with nothing to prove to any motherfucker who hasn’t been around as long as they have. How many years of looking and listening has he accumulated? If only I could hear what he hears. If only I could see what he sees. What is he waiting for?