4/18/2013

Sunderland Terrace


The man tranced as he walked out of the house. White London facades await him.
A street where bricks have petals and windows water. Before touching the street, in the garden of flowers, he caught a sniff of air, looking right and looking left, Sunderland Terrace, filled with Spring. How powerful to see the street spurt. And to see neighbours, walking, civilizedly to work. And then he tranced. There. "I must work," the notion seem inherited, the notion seemed to fit into the routine of the sprout in April, the breakfast table, but little else. He knew stepping on the street, he would walk, back upright, gaze determined, and fast pace. To sit on a bus. And commute. To work. Like a patriot. Like a citizen. Black iron balconies see him off, to his journey away from Sunderland. And he cannot help but turn, and catch the glimpse of the street. We have defeated it all. "I am expiring."

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