There is a Whelming

There is a whelming inside that wants to go over. My legs are crossed and a cig is lit, false attemps to keep it under. Pictures of people and sounds of their voices takes me on a bus to places I can only see from a window. When I yell STOP, the music drowns my voice and there I am again, in transit, inevitably back to where I was and always been - until I'm not and I yell STOP.

There is a whelming, here and there. It smokes itself to sleep. It crashes against concrete dams, damns in persistent symmetrical harmony. Who are the friends and who are the strangers? Is black coffee the new grey? What we do with nothing has much to do with all. Blurbs like that paired with pretty ribbons and bells - and dare we say no, only to mean yes?