thoughts #1

Walking down the street, it's like being in a library, but there is nothing you're allowed to read. The stories swirl around you, you catch snippets that make no sense to you, meaningless words dripping like honey, falling slow, syrupy, dripping to the ground. It makes the pavements sticky with thoughts. Makes your steps slower. You smear the drops, because you're alone. Because you don't understand. Because you too want to paint the streets golden.