Limp

I'm getting lost less, or at least in different places. Feeling the stab of frustration in my gut of failed intuition; looking over the edge of something, seeing the totally unfamiliar- a cliff covered with bramble where I thought there'd be a skyscraper.
The route to Oakland isn't fun underdog, it's just abandoned and blighted. Boarded up storefronts of social services, crumbling concrete steps running into the hills. Just me on the streets.
I'm lonely and getting tired of exteriors. I've seen enough of the ice cream shop with the window display of paper houses. I wish the boy from the bakery with the truck that smells like cake and plays T. Rex would give me a ride somewhere.
Grating vagrancy. Sweat collects in the cuffs of my gray down coat, that Ian says looks like the one Karen Carpenter died in. I piss by the dumpster in the Strip District. The alley smells like fish. Behind me all the windows are black.