Le Fusilier

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Missing the ultimate chance. Calm meditations penetrating my spine. He goes and goes calmly, unlike the day before. He goes and goes... his uproarious voice undulating high and low, the last high lower than the previous one. There is a sense of relief in the realisation that today was better than the previous ones. I can think on my own once again.

It is merely the Friday boom, I call it. The fever of arriving at a snail's pace towards the weekend of broken promises. A moment of once again inhaling the suffocating solitude of the unattainable and the fantastical; the ainhoic razbliuto. A failed sense of security, worries of tomorrow that no person gives a toss about. He dreams of dreams that were never there. He calls out for names that float as ghosts in the periphery. He shall fail over and over and over again. I miss you, he whispers. I miss you.

He flows and flows alone.

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