Grotesque.
That was the word he just couldn't rinse from his mind walking past the old disused museum.
But he wasn't thinking of the museum at that moment.
That was not the target of his ire.
It had been awkward, forced, strained, all these things.
Any calamitous woeful negative expression he could think of he attached to events of the afternoon.
A slow motion car crash.
A personality orgy.
A tepid, acidic, angst ridden drama.
The streets were quiet, and the lamps along them lit the way home through the dark.
He walked off the main road, past the back of the police station, the air was cool and the breeze light.
A nice night to walk. If only every night were like this. His mind alluded to the winter to come.
He passed a closed school and then a glowing pub, he felt its warmth seep through the windows and out into the dark street.
Saturday lunch time would be a good time to go in. The football would be on then.
Past the terraced houses he walked, their strong stone facades protecting their inhabitants.
The walk had become so familiar to him so soon.
He passed a chip shop opening for the evening. No customers inside yet.
The convenience store came into view, he realised he'd not been in there for years.
Wonder if the same man is running it. He'd no mind to go all the way to the supermarket.
He dived in.
The bright lights hit him.
It all appeared new.
He bought his entertainment for the evening.
And carried the two bottles home.
Another day had slid past.
He turned on the light and closed the door.
He wasn't interested in talking now. He'd heard enough. Now was quiet time.
Time for quietness in his head as much as from his mouth.
People talk so much, but have very little to say sometimes.
He thought about the grotesqueness of his afternoon, the waiting, the wondering, the awkwardness of it all. If they call they call. If they don't they don't.
His ire subsided as he pottered about the house, his general disdain however would take longer to to decline.
He put the kettle on.
That was the word he just couldn't rinse from his mind walking past the old disused museum.
But he wasn't thinking of the museum at that moment.
That was not the target of his ire.
It had been awkward, forced, strained, all these things.
Any calamitous woeful negative expression he could think of he attached to events of the afternoon.
A slow motion car crash.
A personality orgy.
A tepid, acidic, angst ridden drama.
The streets were quiet, and the lamps along them lit the way home through the dark.
He walked off the main road, past the back of the police station, the air was cool and the breeze light.
A nice night to walk. If only every night were like this. His mind alluded to the winter to come.
He passed a closed school and then a glowing pub, he felt its warmth seep through the windows and out into the dark street.
Saturday lunch time would be a good time to go in. The football would be on then.
Past the terraced houses he walked, their strong stone facades protecting their inhabitants.
The walk had become so familiar to him so soon.
He passed a chip shop opening for the evening. No customers inside yet.
The convenience store came into view, he realised he'd not been in there for years.
Wonder if the same man is running it. He'd no mind to go all the way to the supermarket.
He dived in.
The bright lights hit him.
It all appeared new.
He bought his entertainment for the evening.
And carried the two bottles home.
Another day had slid past.
He turned on the light and closed the door.
He wasn't interested in talking now. He'd heard enough. Now was quiet time.
Time for quietness in his head as much as from his mouth.
People talk so much, but have very little to say sometimes.
He thought about the grotesqueness of his afternoon, the waiting, the wondering, the awkwardness of it all. If they call they call. If they don't they don't.
His ire subsided as he pottered about the house, his general disdain however would take longer to to decline.
He put the kettle on.
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