stories fascinate me. they always have. i like telling them. i love listening to them.everyone has them.
i live for the feeling when you first walk into a great crush of people, snippets of a hundred different conversations slamming into you b washing over you... all their stories sliding around you...their laundry lists, their sob stories, their best days, their long losts, their what ifs...
cities teem with them, in that yellowsick neon hum off allnight. suburbs rumble softly with them under evenly spaced streetlights guarding prius and sensible station wagons.
i sit sometimes, over coffee or soup for one in the corner, eavesdropping. i cant seem to help myself. their stories, these little snapshots of other peoples lives seem to scratch some itch i didnt know i even had.
half an angry phone call. a quarter of a not too terribly heartfelt apology. an embrace and then the torrent of words that tumbles out in fits and starts after a reunion.
so many stories.
and how is it that day after day, we can pass by so many hundreds upon hundreds of people. a city full of them. and their stories never touch us. not really.
until one day, out of the blue, someones does.
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