There are days where I just want to listen to Beck, for hours on end,
and write books of poetry from the bizarre lyrics of his songs. Today
is one of those days. With the rain barely spitting outside and the
ever-looming gray, Sarah and I made it home in the early mists of
what looks to be a long rainfall. We grazed around upper Bank and
looked for something to keep our attention. Used CD stores smelled
like incense. Street construction stifled the already humid air. We
settled for a Starbucks and sat at window seat and watched people.
A girl in the back of a Quebec-plated blue Camry looked uninterested
in her situation. Her window was the only one open. The two older
guys in the front seat talked with their hands and laughed. She was
in her own world.
Oh Ottawa. You silly town, you.
