anyway. stream of thoughts-
a gutter running down the streets of confused and pathetic–
oh, not the gutter where the “dirty” thoughts are; just a normal gutter where stuff winds up after it rains- candy wrappers, cigarette butts, news pages and the like. just regular. (and rather less interesting)
not feeling like a stream at all, nor a gutter- in fact, more like a subway- crowded to the point of unpleasantness, the low-level fear of pickpocketry, so you pull your bag round in front; you’re trying to read a book so you can have that small amount of personal space like it’s a little wall, but having no good spot to hold onto the bar, and someone’s backpack keeps bumping into you and you scour the train for anyone about to get out of his seat at every single stop until, when you finally see one, you realize you’re only two stops from home and feel cheated.
no little birds will ever come sing to you and cheer you up; the tiny brown mouse and her children, all of whom wear clothing and speak (and speak english, to boot!) will never come out from behind some great heirloom piece of furniture, burnished with age and love, because you don’t have any furniture like that. not even close. (but you tell yourself that it’s because such little mouse families simply do not exist.)
well, one has to tell oneself something.