The window was dirty and outside the day was grey with speckled dots of grime. I pressed my finger to the glass and made circles within circles. They held my attention, indifferent in the light of a dull grey day.
In one rounded corner, sun bled through and that painted circle became something new. Well…not really…who was I kidding. Lying in some poetic lament, bent on the curiosity of dirty windows? What would be next, the inclusion of dusty floors as a cipher to the problem of world peace.
Damn the poetic, fuck the verse…tell it like it is…Humans suck.
Poetic rhetoric…be gone.