This is the other perspective.

Appreciators of music.
And talk of a self imposed exile.
Out of what?
Music from the hair metal era and a drink suggestion. Three takers.
We shared a round and a few smokes in a dingy back lounge.
Nelson Avenue: Vancouver.
Cloves and the potential of misery.
We all wore shoes sewn by the same third world factory.
Dying plants and anxiety were on my mind that day.

And it was this day that the idea of an apple on the forearm was explained to me.
More prominant however, was the song playing in a record store somewhere on West 4th.


Blogger Spiro said...

you are such a poet. i love you. thank you.
(apple on the forearm?)

August 26, 2006 5:55 p.m.  

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