When the boy was dying in the street, the crowd didn't help him. You were with the kid, then you were against him. What did he do to deserve it. Maybe he did nothing. Maybe the crowd doesn't know what to do. What's the story. Your brain solved problems like these while the coffee cooled. Petty, human, revealing problems. You looked at the waitress, shook your head. What would she think if you ordered the wine. Ever concerned, conscientious waitress. She poured a new coffee, you took a walk around the block, came back and ordered a wine.
 You looked for evidence of a reaction the next day. Who looked like they were still thinking about it, what did they think. They said nothing. They looked at your curious face, back at the soccer game. Fucking yankee gringo.
 You began to notice men who didn't smile, who got their asses kissed. Who were concerned with matters of coercion, or otherwise kept secrets. The coffee tasted a little bitter, the wine a little tart. The girls were less sexy and mysterious. When the waitress looked at you, she looked for forgiveness for what she was in your eyes. It gave you the confidence to fuck her, finally. That you should probably leave was something she wouldn't admit because, like your desire to be in on the secrets of this town, it just wasn't cool.
 To anybody reading this who ever moved to a far away place to engineer a better persona somewhere else, everybody knows, and it's pathetic. The idea that you could fool people is where the unawareness starts. 
 Things you weren't aware of: what the town thought of you, who controlled the waitress, their plans for you. I shouldn't say that it's total unawareness. You did have a few sleepless nights before you wound up with a gun in your mouth. Some part of you knew, and you should have listened to it, obviously. But you didn't. You got out of bed and put on that stupid shirt, greeted people with that stupid smile, practiced the new you.
 The waitress the kind of woman who goes to psychics and waives away her inability to keep her legs closed as 'life'.

You inhale. Look at the sky. Read the piece of paper again: "Become blackmailable." Authenticate it again. Still passes. Of course it does. How stupid would you look if the protocol was compromised. Anyway, we have to become blackmailable.
 Hairy loved poetry when he was young and ran a newspaper in college. Out of college he was recruited by the CIA and now he maintains a beard and intimidates people. Looks he like he just got back from a fishing trip. You never take the bullet when he offers it. You always flip. Maybe it's the literary beard. People like him.

The shadow of the leafy tree against the yellow house animate in the wind like this mediterranean dream: the construction primitive; the sun an obnoxious kind of hot; the people and the conversation the passionate and trivial kind, charming in the way a Spanish island makes you ignore your scruples and partake.
 When the boy died the crowd didn't help him. You were with the kid, then you were against the kid. What did he do to deserve it. Maybe he did nothing. Maybe the crowd doesn't know what to do. What's the story. Your brain solved problems like these while the coffee cooled. Petty, human, telling. You looked at the waitress, shook your head. What would she think if you ordered the wine. Ever concerned, conscientious waitress. She poured a new coffee, you took a walk around the block, ordered a wine.
 You looked for evidence of a reaction the next day. Who looked like they were still thinking about it, what did they think. They said nothing. They looked at your curious face, back at the soccer game. Fucking yankee gringo.
 You began to notice men who didn't smile, who got their asses kissed. Who were concerned with matters of coercion, or otherwise kept secrets. The coffee tasted a little bitter, the wine a little tart. The girls were less sexy and mysterious. When the waitress looked at you, she looked for forgiveness for what she was in your eyes. It gave you the confidence to fuck her, finally. That you should probably leave was something she wouldn't admit to you, because, like your desire to be in on the secrets of this town, it just wasn't cool.
 To anybody reading this who ever moved to a far away place because you thought you could engineer a better persona, everybody knows, and it's a bit pathetic. The idea that you could fool people is where the unawareness starts. Things you weren't aware of: what the town thought of you, who controlled the waitress, their plans for you. I shouldn't say that it's total unawareness. You did have a few sleepless nights before you wound up with a gun in your mouth. Some part of you knew, and you should have listened to it, obviously. But you didn't. You got out of bed and put on that stupid shirt, greeted people with that stupid smile, practiced the new you.
 The waitress the kind of woman who goes to psychics and waives away her inability to keep her legs closed as life.

The suicide rate of the elderly is rising.

I stand in the human highway and feel the vibrations of the train above me. The foot steps of those walking beside me heavy with their stories, marching on to where some place justifies its existence wit how many people go there.

Let me tell you what it's like to be inside my head:

I'm not the boy peering through the window, I'm the man sitting there in the cafe watching and listening, listening and watching. Like some creep, I suppose some think of me. If they only knew how much better than them I really am. Admitting my superiority is a mistake, so from now on we're gonna go on like I never did, like the way I talk to small people who are offended by that sort of thing, like this book is a bible where some God, not me, is the real source of information, and so should be the target of your scorn.

Let me tell you what it's like inside my head:

I'm not the boy peering through the window. I'm the man sitting there in the cafe watching and listening, listening and watching, watching you. Like some creep, so they say. If they only knew how much better I am. Admitting my superiority is a mistake. From now on we're gonna go on like I never did, like the way I talk to small people who are offended by that sort of thing, like this book is a bible where some God, not me, is the real source of information, and so should be the target of your petty scorn.

Let's split the night between the two of us
If if the silence begs a whisper

Reap the silence for a dream, and then lets
Split the dream between the two of us

See the darkness in the sunset, see it
For the darkrise that it is in the time of

Visions in the noise the real, and
The flesh the ghost

Let's split the night between the two of us
If the silence begs a whisper, reap the silence for a dream

The girl has dangerous eyes. Green and ready
To be fought for - where does her confidence come from

Just before night there is the hour when the sky
Remains illuminated by a sun already set

Makes you wonder if the night doesn't creep up from the streets
And the sunset isn't a reflection in a puddle of gasoline

In an hour like this she stood in front of me and said
I brought some wine, let's split it between the two of us

In the way she said wine all the romantic essence of wine
And the look in her eyes, I didn't have to feel lucky

Not to have fought over her, though threatening
That I might have to

I closed my eyes and wished she wasn't there
But she was, and talking in that dangerous way

Like she herself born of the negative space left behind by day
Like herself a dream to fill the silence