Saturday, After the Rain

Just one of those days where the rain makes everything smell like wet wool, and I can smell the yellowness of the second-hand Rushdie paperback in my hands, and I have never deserved a Marlboro more than now, and dreams are not limited by timelines or Visa or age, and dreams are not piled on by the bills in the mailbox, and it's cool to improvise lyrics to French jazz songs, and every stranger is stranger than you.