Faces in the middle of wooden planks
make up walls connected to windows,
and through those windows we see
the beginnings of everything.
Crossing paths with strangers
that wear t-shirts with logos
and text that make you chuckle,
and crack your knuckles
before returning to work.
Jerks take turns ganging up on
the quiet, pushing down their words
to be forgotten further on.
Everything is wrong and yet we
insist that things would always have
turned out like this.
Like there weren’t other visions
buried deep along the way.
The street lights burn to black
and night becomes the day.
Night To Day
Teleporting Typewriter 