I've lived along a blank page for too long. The moments I've let slip from my fingers were better off; I haven't the appreciation, haven't the capacity to understand. To hold them hostage in my paltry drawers would afford no justice to those enrolled. From the tender arms of my chair I stand, collect my memorabilia; cigarette case, strike-anywheres; and make for the balcony without heart. Outdoors, I stare the city down. I hold a quarter-million in my wheeling irises, a spin-cycle of indifference. Can't say I see things differently, also can't say I've spent much time between the ears of anyone else. Paper's render the statistics of the day, and as I light a cigarette I peruse; nineteen robberies, thirty-one assaults, ten murders. It's really not funny, right' It's what they wrote; for God's sake"how can you blame them' Sure, censor the successors, print only the fragmented grins of the captive, show us that straying from the collared path leads to trials, cells, executions. Lead us not into temptation. Suppress it all, for we, We don't need the truth. I'll breathe, I'll sit and eat, I'll buy a vase, pay my goddamn taxes. Why do I really need to know what the badge beats with his justice" Why' I laugh. "Why?", because it's my f'cking right. I sigh for nothing and lean against my rail. I hope for wings. Never flew; neither plane, jet, carpet. Smoke burns my eyes, stings my nostrils. I spit the old butt onto the terrace. Maybe a pickpocket'll wind his foot on it like a banana peel and the old woman's purse will leap back into her arms. Maybe a dog'll eat it. Maybe I'll pick it up later.

And maybe one day I'll give a sh't.