A 90 minutes walk, a note book.

It was really humid and the thick pages were soft and yielding. Blue ink on purple matrix.

It looked black on gray under the lamp post.

The mandatory mist around its light making me remember nothing. Only to check on my podometer once in a while. And to draw a line after each gust of words.

The occasional glance, a jogger with a dog, a teenaged couple smiling silently, digging their moment. 

I can't break out a sweat. Six pages already filled. Each street corner has held my shadow for a few minutes.

African masks, green or eggplant walls displaying them to the parked car across the street. I want to ring the bell and tell them they're out of style. 

Over four thousand steps and I reach brand new asphalt. The lighting sucks, but wow look at the gorgeous park, the valley, the birch trees, Bob Dylan, another page is consumed.

I wasn't born to lose you he says, and I write I think who is, really? It's all in the want. The light is red, but what the hell. It's a four lane and a quick jog.

While I surrender four bucks for taurine, guarana and caffeine she looks at the pad with a star on it and a pen stuck in the spiral binding like it's a foreign object.

It's an S leading to my home. Spots on aluminum siding and fake waterfalls and the end of my mp3 rotation. I'm done.

Empty, the next page awaits.

3 thoughts on “11pm”

  1. Glenn says:

    Hi Jack
    An apple
    a day
    the fashion


  2. FrenzY says:

    Taurus Kik.
    Asphalt quick time.
    Mac In touch.

    J’r’tourne au Gym.
    Drett Now Babe.
    Want a Mp3 itou.
    To suer en notes.

    Wet pump up the jam !


  3. swan_pr says:

    glenn: happy apple! it’s all part of the treatment. thank you doctor 🙂

    frenzy: mon gym est sur le trottoir for now. avec les oreilles occupées, c’est the best. mais écrire en même temps, ça fait pas un très bon exercice.

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