It's funny... As I a writing this the world continues to pulse and move and flow.
Steel and rubber blood through asphalt veins.
Concrete synapse triggering countless actions.
Memories, unending urges, the gentle caress of key strokes beneath finger tips.
There is an ugly breeze sliding through the living room. It feels like something from my past. The memory is just out of reach and I can't pin it down.
Something about standing on a balcony. I can't tell where or when. How old I was, who was with me. Faded ink.
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