Dying Dreams Weigh Too Much

This morning feels so oppressive.
Grey. Smog. Dingy southern California. The grey hides the usually shiny veneer.
I feel my own mortality this morning. What with Tony being my age when he died.
I feel the weight of millions of dead and dying dreams here. Tony’s included.
Screaming children in the hotel parking lot.
A young check out clerk with puffed up visions of her own importance. With her huge fake lashes and carefully contrived eyebrows that look scary, stark, as if they are planning an attack.
The sad talk of the baristas at Starbucks in a dingy strip mall in the depths of all that’s bad about the edges of LA. She wishes she lived in Boston.
The family pushing a week’s worth of groceries down the street, tiredly. He with the grocery cart a mile from the closest store and fully over-flowing. Her with the stroller, two kids.
Dead dreams feel oppressive and they hurt. They press.

Here’s a rose for you Tony. And a drink. I need to get out of here before my dreams die too.


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