wama

29.07.06

The philosophers stand at their rock, high above the city, one on top of the other. They fly a kite asking for some answers. The kite billows pregnant in the wind. Its wings puff out and it is a balloon.

Something sinks below.
I’ve lost my touch. There is so little to see, but I can’t make it out. My head is heavy with pollution and the clouds hanging needing to rain. When will it rain. A downpour. But tomorrow we can only hope for a drizzle and a slow rinsing.

Some days I don’t eat well. Others gorgeous. There’s no rhyme or reason to it. But I promise if you came to visit I would be the best kitchen boy for miles. You would rave to everyone about my moles and ceviches. By the way have I ever asked you how you feel about tacos.

posted by la kara @ 20:28