Viscous Pages

Toadstools. In the words. Between them. Herpes at the end of every breath. I was sitting in traffic. Listening to songs I could only vaguely understand. Fathers schooled by their children. Husbands divorced from their selfishness. A chaos of fantasies preforated by the score of truth.

Deviously despairing in a precocious drama of trying to maintain his happiness.

I was sitting in traffic. Taking careful note of the intersections. As I approached the close of the gap. Reds, yellows and greens ignited by the impatience of a hundred lonely passengers in the seat next to me.

We discussed evolution int the technical sense. How the equations had spit us out more mangled than we'd gone in. How the claculations didn't care who they were hurting. Nor the people who had created them.

Braking in small sighs. I left him with the thought that we were helpless. That we'd always been.

Only now it had been proven.