High brow, high tower, high people. A grass fed, half-cocked, cockamamie conjecture. 10,000 hours so I know what I’m doing. Shiny metal belt; leather hypersexual. Hints to a treasure like steam wafting to dogshit.
The bench spoke to me. I waited so long: the daily walks, the nervous glances, - hoping. I made excuses, now thinking about it, to walk by. Deluding myself to believe. No, I do like walking. I do like that bench. Around and around that gnarly, blood-footed path. And then sat, “please leave“ it requested. An underwhelming introduction, but chills and flutters still. I walk on.