Why is it that all my life I get the most depressed at dusk on Sunday's? Is it the impending doom of a coming Monday or the five day work week. Is it because I had a lot of fun on Friday and Saturday that I don't want the weekend to end. It's funny because sometimes the most beautiful sunsets happen on Sunday's at dusk. This evening I ate at McCoy's... pondered the loneliness within... planned for the future... analyzed the previous nights events. Our happiness can sometimes hinge on a yes or no question. I left McCoy's with a yearning. I people watched, I watched a preacher with a mic. and he caught my eye. However, he wasn't good enough to catch my ear. The word fell on the oil slicked pavement and rooted into nothingness.
Baby blues adorned his poetic posturing.
His gray was a fatal compass.
His hands carried amplified regret.
Gibberish spilled from microphone splinters.
A toxin of future redemption sprayed from torn lips.
The words fell heavy on the asphalt mountain tops.
Heaven is fools gold for the right price.
The price of his soul... faith.
The price of mine... is of no consequence to you.
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