people call,

you don't answer.

music plays,

you don't listen.

life hurts,

you don't feel.

It's like when people talk to one another but they don't hear. They just watch their mouths moving on and on, going nowhere.

It's like those dull moments between verbs. The quick silences between nouns. The passing dreams amongst lives.

That same feeling. The same image of pale green grass, a white sky and an old oak sitting alone on a hill. Only the sound of the breeze, rising up and calming again. Whistling then humming. Whistling then humming.

It's a painting of a man sitting in a chair. There is an old wooden pipe in his mouth that just barely lights up with each breath. The sweet smell of tobacco mixing with the artificial blah of oils. The dark brown oak chair, spotted with lacquer and fading finish. A deep, dark beard rising up into wrinkles at the edges of the eyes and following the curves of the forehead. Setting off a combed lack of hair only slightly less dark than the beard. It was a french piece I believe. Henri Matisses "Andre Derain".

The warm vagueness of the coffee shop take me to these places and then brings me back... all too quickly.