People are pairs,
Triplets, Circles on the grass; People are their kids and their dogs, Taking in the summer scent. A sultry breeze snugs itself onto Trinity Bellwoods park: the fit, cool, fresh lived humans gather here. They are not shy to brag about how greatly they can befriend. Well, what do I have to brag about? Besides this wrecked wood bench only a soft sense of beauty and sorrow keeps me company. This afternoon, that's the holly trinity of mine: Solitude, contemplation & heartache: they glide, white; tenderize the silver coin in the sky. Funny how one rows down meanders as if expecting a treasure at every curve. But, I'm telling you man, I don't think there's a goddamn reward anywhere, specially when the pellicle of warmth has abandoned your dermis. So, Play volleyball; Go jogging; Make new friends; Fuck and be fucked as much you're able to reach orgasm on a lifetime. Refuse to take that gloomy path, where one can't be sure weather he was left behind or he left them behind-- probably a combination of both. No matter how intensely I wonder about - the hip and fit are much entertained as they seek balance on a rubber cord extended between two trees. I'll leave them be, unsuppressed; free from my petty scrutiny. I wonder why the suicide rate rises during winter rather than summer... Let's retreat to some dusky bar, dear me.
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