adrena

The insipid gene runs and plays with the nocturnal soul. . . .I am replete and I am quiet. . I am alone, and I am lonely. . .I am standing on a balcony, overlooking a city block with no city upon its soil, tumbleweeds and hobos, under torn blue tarps. . . across the street a school, an airport, and beyond those vestiges, mountains of less than purple majesty loom, but without so much emphasis, as if crying to fall in the breeze, but having to stand until the San Andreas shivers them free, the cigarette in my hand is bitter and makes me wish for my friends, but the smoke helps to camouflage the teasing clouds that breech just barely over the tips of the San Jacinto range and then creep back as if shuddering at the desert and the lack of life there on.