1214 at 97%

The hour is old at thirty six when waiting in the bank vestibule on Parc Avenue will do no good. Métro's closed, the 80's already passed, and the only options are a trip downtown or the side alley. Better to hail a cab. My companion's a tin oboe whose sweet tune questions my philosophies, not my answers. I feel like such an animal, dancing my faerie dance around such a stable plant, clear Swiss liquid in vein. Now sitting on [65396619] we speak of relational theories, of planning and living organically, spreading sesame seeds for others to vaccuum. Funny how my new career begets my old, how comfortable I am in face of my ideal. What future holds is unknown and undesirably so, for overworn contacts glue shut the eyes of necessity. But if anything the future will hold this present as it does now, especially for someone as nostalgic as me.