3 buck chuck

there is something quite eerie about this place. horrid schmaltz is playing on the hi-fi ("i'll love you 'til the 12th of never... and that's a long, long time") and faces are staring numbly at glowing screens. i cannot tell if i am exhausted or simply burned out. it poured today. one of my coworkers and i stood under an eave outside work, smoking, watching the torrent blow sideways, the puddles rearrange themselves, the sky dark grey at 3 pm. i drove home listening to pete sinfield, taillights blurred red, gliding. walked downtown with strong winds and wet leaves. tonight the city smells of garlic and meat.
this is the sort of melancholy that feels sensual. truly: few things are more anticipatory than sprawling languidly in a warm bedroom, an open window showcasing driving rain, a blanket scented of one's own skin.
'tis a full moon tonight, or nearly. go on, look.