(no subject)
It's been forever since I've written anything, and the last one was crap anyways, sooo, you get two.
The steering wheel felt foreign in my hands. It was foreign, as it wasn't my car. That and I haven't actually driven in about a month.
Have you ever listened to a random radio station and heard an ancient song from an ancient band only to go home, sit for hours, forget about it, then remember it, then download EVERYTHING you can find, only to have too much?
...I have...
True Story...
The road felt foreign under the tires. It wasn't the same road I had driven not even a year ago. Something was different. Now, this isn't a metaphorical road, it's a real one, paved and littered with greasy spots from automobiles and animals. And no, I'm not being metaphorical with that either, it exists.
It seems more and more that it happens like that. Something is different about the city anymore. And, frankly, it weirds me out. I know for a fact I've driven these streets for years, and I know for a fact that I've seen pretty much everything...But, in that foreign car on that foreign road, I realized that I've been seeing things all wrong. Or I am seenig things all wrong. Or maybe both are right, but different, hell if I know. Point is, it was creepy. And Fastball still reigns as the best band ever.
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(A description of the last one. I think it was slap-dash and I want to clarify it)
The dust danced tiredly before the cracked windows as the sick tinge of yellow street-lights filmed through. The dust was tired, yeah, but everything in the damn room was. It'd been a while since anyone used the small brick shanty, and the current occupants sure as hell weren't going to clean it. From the window, two faces could be seen. Noted, there wasn't anything else -to- see, but still. The poor soul was tied down to a chair. Judging from the angle of the face and the pool of blood that he was soaking in, they'd beaten him to shut him up. Now, the poorer soul had to be the guy standing. Wobbling. Sleeping. Whatever the case may be. He'd pace, stop, nod, rinse and repeat. There's nothing worse than that, not even stewing like the first guy was.
I raised my barrel easily against the window-ceil. The mechanism glided easily, the click non-existant.
He paced.
He stopped.
Nodded...
(Maybe that clarifies it more? I dunno!)