twenty-eight march
eight : fifty-five p.m.

it's always the music that brings back the memories the smells the feelings what i was wearing what you were wearing everything that day. through tunnels over bridges beside the dirty trucks.

he was crossing the street, hands in his pockets, head down, destination in mind, maybe. he walked right past his apartment. past everything. towards nothing.

the train passed and i stood next to it and it was so windy and i felt so small. so much smaller.

music : "angeles" by elliott smith; mogwai
literature : nothing
fixation : downtown