she's the kind ya like to flaunt, and take to dinner.
in a stoner mood? wish you were somewhere else? i'll take you right there.
there is a photo on the wall. a person, could be a long hair, or a girl, is sitting on a stoop, baggy ancient carpenter pants, a zipper hoodie with the hood pulled up hiding most facial features. ze is wearing a beat up leather bike jacket smoking a cigarette in front of a garage.
the photo is in a dark black and white, matted in gray and white with a black frame. a wooden frame, not plastic or metal, and it is plain and simplistic. 8x10 sideways: an important detail. the photo is the only thing hung on the white wall. the floors are hardwood, stained a dark antique brown. you are in a loft. there is a white wall in front of you, and one behind you. the other two walls are brick. you look behind you, the wall is bare ezcept for a large print of the joy division "unknown pleasures" in white with black lines. it is poster size framed in black, and is the only thing on the plain white wall. it is directly opposite of the photo. to the left is a brick wall. the bricks look ancient, and the grout is missing in some places, oozing out in others. on the wall are two tall, wide windows. at the top of each window there sits a depressed arch. the moulding is wide and almost ornate. painted black. the top and bottom strips are topped with a sort of shelf or sill, and the strips up the side are fluted, like colums, capped with a corinthian capitol. you tear your attention from the twining ivy design in the moulding under the sill, and look outside. the incinerator is a couple blocks away, vomiting thick pale smog up and into the air. it is raining out and cloudy, but the sun is trying to peak through. one would think, that with the proximity of the incinerator, the rent would be cheap. but it's not. it is expensive, and you're pissed. you have a superb view of the incinerator and all of it's glory, not to mention the burnt out shell of that old factory directly next door. all of the windows are broken out and it is covered in grafitti. usually you are nearly fascinated with grafitti, but the clutter of it on this factory is hideous. you hate the view, and you're pissed. because the rent is so fucking high.
so you walk to the couch and flop down, sinking in. laying back, arm behind your head, you pick up a joint that has been waiting since yesterday, and raise it to your lips. light it. you turn on the radio. no. not the radio, a CD. you are feeling like somehting classical. you put on Holst's planets and switch it to Jupiter, the bringer of jollity. you could use a little of that. close your eyes.
are you alone? yes. the only human contact you've had in the past two days is the delivery person from jimmy's breakfast pizza, and to tell the truth, he's getting sick of seeing you.
no. pot, and that photograph on the wall are the only things you have.
there is a photo on the wall. a person, could be a long hair, or a girl, is sitting on a stoop, baggy ancient carpenter pants, a zipper hoodie with the hood pulled up hiding most facial features. ze is wearing a beat up leather bike jacket smoking a cigarette in front of a garage.
the photo is in a dark black and white, matted in gray and white with a black frame. a wooden frame, not plastic or metal, and it is plain and simplistic. 8x10 sideways: an important detail. the photo is the only thing hung on the white wall. the floors are hardwood, stained a dark antique brown. you are in a loft. there is a white wall in front of you, and one behind you. the other two walls are brick. you look behind you, the wall is bare ezcept for a large print of the joy division "unknown pleasures" in white with black lines. it is poster size framed in black, and is the only thing on the plain white wall. it is directly opposite of the photo. to the left is a brick wall. the bricks look ancient, and the grout is missing in some places, oozing out in others. on the wall are two tall, wide windows. at the top of each window there sits a depressed arch. the moulding is wide and almost ornate. painted black. the top and bottom strips are topped with a sort of shelf or sill, and the strips up the side are fluted, like colums, capped with a corinthian capitol. you tear your attention from the twining ivy design in the moulding under the sill, and look outside. the incinerator is a couple blocks away, vomiting thick pale smog up and into the air. it is raining out and cloudy, but the sun is trying to peak through. one would think, that with the proximity of the incinerator, the rent would be cheap. but it's not. it is expensive, and you're pissed. you have a superb view of the incinerator and all of it's glory, not to mention the burnt out shell of that old factory directly next door. all of the windows are broken out and it is covered in grafitti. usually you are nearly fascinated with grafitti, but the clutter of it on this factory is hideous. you hate the view, and you're pissed. because the rent is so fucking high.
so you walk to the couch and flop down, sinking in. laying back, arm behind your head, you pick up a joint that has been waiting since yesterday, and raise it to your lips. light it. you turn on the radio. no. not the radio, a CD. you are feeling like somehting classical. you put on Holst's planets and switch it to Jupiter, the bringer of jollity. you could use a little of that. close your eyes.
are you alone? yes. the only human contact you've had in the past two days is the delivery person from jimmy's breakfast pizza, and to tell the truth, he's getting sick of seeing you.
no. pot, and that photograph on the wall are the only things you have.