Sewer Angel
<p>Parking was a mess but I made it. I am writing this alone, out here on the sand. I lay next to two empty bottles, so forgive me if my themes are scattered. Once I’ve finished putting a drunken pen to paper, this message in a bottle will reach a brave soul overseas. Read me, if you dare. By the time you’ve finished, you’ll reminisce upon the image of your first love. Today’s epic dwells on an old relationship headed nowhere, and presumably quite fast.</p>
<p>You will not believe me when I tell you that I can hear her laughter behind me at all times. I’d like to think that if my prose were beautiful enough, she’d walk right out of my memories and sit right beside me. I could gaze into her abstract eyes and forget about my troubles. Oh how I wish this could come true. To match her beauty would mean I would have to become possessed by Neruda and construct what Shakespeare would write effortlessly. Whether or not I can orchestrate a loving symphony is up to her. The applause of hundreds roaring up the Wiltern would mean nothing to me, as her silence would mean everything.</p>
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