Pensive fingers drum along my face thinking about everything and nothing. I try to see through that fogged up window of life. Try to see through the pane. From the plump churchgoing lady, who’s as sweet as her pastries, beating the crap out of her dough with a rolling pin. To the man who has Van Gogh’s ear for music, belting out a shrill note in an unnaturally high falsetto, that would put a eunuch to shame; a synopsis of the magic of the mundane. The bittersweet taste of comedy and tragedy burning on the tip of my tongue into an alchemy all its own.
By: Spencer D.
© SD 09/16/2013