False intellectuals. Lined up, one two three, on a bedraggled couch, sliding down the collegiate slope, vomiting overaudible words into the fluorescent lighted air. The world behind them radiates with everything of coffeehouse perfection: whispering voices, commonsense music, the aura of thought in its last remaining hiding place. Listen, and listen softly.
They are frustrated. Yes. The incessant attempts to reach for a hand before the hand shows itself. Thus: speak louder. Plans after college, psychiatry, physical therapy, medical school, full scholarships, false apathy, crucifixional analysis, articulated, whiny words. Really: see me, prove to me that I'm alive.
Our elitist clothes hide our animal souls.
Friday, October 24, 2008
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