Paper. Pills. Pain

I never knew that the bullets would feel so vulgar and painful. Not alone with leaving prints of fluid around the place it hadn't occurred to me where I ended up at. With holes gated from closing in meantime I further my body towards the floor and slept. So bluntly and so quickly it had came and said but when time becomes humane you can't quite stop it from killing you, could it?

 

"Man, I love this song" sitting outside Zuni's Cafe in San Francisco with cars passing by like it were some cliché scene there a friend of mine sat comfortably while I sat tense with racing thoughts going through my mind. With an IPOD running his brain playing "Paper Planes" by M.I.A. I couldn't imagine how the whole America can get so grooved and in tuned with a song such as that. Meaning I can't believe how everyone can react the same to something. Between like millions of people, that's really something. I'm used to meeting people who're opposites. It rather keeps it balanced you say? I'm not sure

 

Watching my friend in tune with this song just when I turn my face to the side I see him pulling out a small tube of white powder. He dabbed some on his finger which was crunched in a fist near the thumb and went at it with a big hell of a sniff to really shoot it up the head. He furiously shakes his head with a shocking aftermath of a taste and then sets it back into his buttoned left chest pocket. 

 

"Wouldn't you just pull your shoulders down, you look like something went up your a*s" I relax my shoulders with a short laugh of a breath when he took a look at me. "I swear like you don't even chill whenever we go somewhere" 
"I'm sorry, I'm just like this" I lay my back with legs burning with stress. I set my right leg on top of the left and switched every now and then. It's like cracking your knuckles and then you'd have to keep going at it, that's how stress is. It's an on-going routine that's hard to stop until someone enforces it, but it's hard to do it by yourself. Everything is harder when things have to be done with self, especially when you're not left with much.

"Let's get out of here" getting up Charles leer eyes made people feel intimidated when we stood up to go to the next street. Like one time this one guy passed us giving him a dirty look to Charles because he thought he meant trouble. It was quite hilarious. Especially when he'd show a confused look on why it is so, he doesn't notice his intimidation. Me, I'm the complete opposite. While he shown off with his small dark eyes, pale tan skin and a rather sturdy impression I came out with the dark, dirty red-headed, scrawny white-skinned fool. Reaching to the Market Street many people crammed around the Tram stops while others composed music making it a bouncing rhythm like bongos and up-beat jammin' guitars at random corners. Never close to each other. 

Looking at a couple of teenagers with striking neon Nikes and their burned out styled hair wearing "Jeffree Star" t-shirts like it were their God I suddenly thought of that generation rather dumbfounding. In the way it was embarrassing to display oneself as. More like a sheep to politics, to a subject of stupidity lingering along with its buddy small-mindedness. Walking across the street wasn't a big deal until I suddenly realized Charles went into the other store leaving me stranded outside. For me to not feel like a sheep I went my own way, more like stranding my own self than him. He doesn't need me; I became the dependent f*****g variable. I became the vulnerable, more like born as. 

I passed Virgin Records on the way seeing the new trend of ‘The Dark Knight’ on display. I rewind my steps every time I saw a cute girl but I wished someone were for me to be all interested. All these thoughts of dwelling bashed like it were shoveling and patting dirt with new nuisance to play out my mind. Seeing a hobo picking at his fingernails while sitting at the foot of a stretch of wall right across Westfield sign I decided to plop right next to him. He didn't budge but continued picking his nails. He smelled gruesome and completely dragged with shoes worn out as usual. I tried to ignore the putrid smell and somehow my nose became numb of it. He turns around with his scruffy black gray tipped beard piercing his green eyes evaporating like anger watered by steamy gas. He wasn’t angry but rather in remorse of self, used to it but is tired for things to happen of change. Suddenly I started to get up but in a slumping way and slowly took small paces of the concrete slabs beneath his feet. He didn’t move because of me, he only moved from the publicity around. I felt to follow him but made myself to look like I was going for some other deal like any other tourist in San Fran. I found him sitting around the corner of O’Farrell Parking which was like a backward step for me when I was with Charles.

Getting to that street was something I shouldn’t have done. Taking that corner from the parking lot building I felt the most humungous blow in the face I ever had in my life. Opening my eyes fast enough from the pain to make me blind I saw it was that man I was following. He led me into a trap. People were around but they didn’t know what to do. They scurry off in the distance. Like square on the face right out of my mouth and nose began to bleed a barrel. As I thought it’d be over for a sec I realized something felt uneasy around my gut. The people around scurried because that man was holding something of ranged pain, rather a gun to be exact. I didn’t look at where I have been hit but all I could do was fall on the floor. And fallen to the floor I did. My hair with the blood enlightened my dark fire mind leaving me stranded as always but relaxed for the first time in my life. F*****g Charles man.