A common thread
It seems like someone is always doing their laundry (I can hear the wash and dry machines as they spin, from where I sit). In my room can be heard a periphery of noise, much as an eye that sees too much. My ears cannot be closed. They are not blind to the cigarette smokings that happen beyond a new renters' kitchen. They are not blind to the tumbling of hardy, winter jeans in the communal drying machine. They hear the freakish rantings of the women that rowdily declaim their earthly pleasures.
With my eyes, I see the squirrel gather its nut. On the corner, the monk progresses in his orange slacks. I thank the 7-Eleven worker. And yet, will I ever find peace?
2009-10-14, 1:27 a.m.