This was a crisp misty morning run kind of day, with the cold air reaching into the depths of my lungs like icy tentacles, making ice trays out of dendrites and sending out pure steam from my mouth as I moved on over the bridge, the wooden bridge, paused to stretch, almost taken out by a speeding bicycle, having my own joyful contemplations about the frost on plants and the orientation of the city. Glowing great ideas in the distant smoke, all kinds of airplane sounds hovering above my head represent the doppler effect of ideas and opportunities that pass me by quicker than if I were a passenger swooping over individuals who wished to join my questing nature. Hey, throw me a ladder from your ambitious helicopter, my surgeon general in the sky, with cigarettes clouding my vision and seemingly sporadic electrical cues changing the volume of the remote music device without any specific rhyme or reason… and again.
Is there even a point to this? I must ask. I prefer reading materials to entertain my wearied mind. Pessoa. Oceanography. No more of this ranting, wrists clenched in rage. I will partake again later, I assure myself.