7 pm such a strange time:
I try to cross the street, cars keep coming, flahing, driving by
leaving no space for the walkers to move forward.
One cyclist, high on life, makes small talk through a moving cars window,
She broke down the regulated space
He doesn't know what to make of her smile

Subway packed with vaccent stares
One man leans against the door pulling himself away from the crowds
He gazes towards me as I write, admiring, my youthful utopian persona
too tired to feel anything

Missed the west bound and then the south
doors close, the train pulls away as my hair waves goodbye
The wistle laughs at my attempt to do to many things at once
an attempt to deregulate me

I see someone I know
do I go over and socialize?
Not my favorite person
but I'm trying to get over my snobbery my elitism
and just be nice . . . or am I?
He must have seen me by now but he won't come by,
the last thing he needs is an anti-war feminist in his world

We go our seperate ways
I say nothing
so typical, I defend my position to myself with the memeory of our last three conversations
exposing him as another conservative white rich gay boy
too much priviledge to see his oppression

7:30 what a stranger time

I see this old man who has a shop on Harbourd. I say hello unsure if he will remember me since he has alzimers (see I'm not a complete anti-soical snob!)He remembers me, as we are chatting he is trying to read my open journal. I feel so uncomfortable and I close it. That action puts up a barrier of distrust. Him there at that moment reading my thoughts was creepy. I know I share my thoughts here but there is a distnace . . .. anyways I told him that I got into a bike accident with the bike he gave me, two weeks after having it. He seemed distantly unconcerned. He goes down memoory lane; where he got the bike, how he worked on it etc. He asked me if I kept the parts, I told him that I sold them. It didn't occur to me at the time to return the parts to him. I had bought new tires and basically the rest was destroyed. But at the moment I wish I had returned the bike.
He looked older than I remembered, more tired and dirtier. I remember he told me he loves patato and leek soup, maybe I will make him some . .. .