...a deathly serenade...

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
thought, but it was not in reflection to what was
to come...the ardent desire to deceive the notion
of existence seeming repetitive, overwrought in
the weight of monotony...memorably she said
that the perspective of indifference was an
underestimated coda to live by, and that this way
of thinking was useful in lieu of the amount
happenings often came to...though I couldn't
ascertain any sentimentality in her words—they
were spoken in a clear direct tone as if assured of
what seemed a lofty assertion to make, the smell
of weed smoke sifting off two passer-bys in
cahoots about some sort of burglary somewhere
in Dalston...
...we soon walk the dark London streets
(an occurrence that would often happen)...down
Kingsland Road, observing the latent happenings
of the night: a staggering man walking by and
taking on the appearance of a Clown, nose red
(for unknown reasons, we agreed), and wearing
one shoe, shouting about the need for the
downfall of the Conservative Party...the tear
dropped eyes of a lady outside the Supermarket
clutching at a yellow sweater...a stray labrador...
...the frivolous pursuit of ordaining
meaning, commented Leila as we turned down
into Labernum Street into the twilight flash of a
parked car, where two men sat awaiting the
arrival of that particular drug addict...the bogle
eyed stares at us give this away, as we continue
down onto Queensbridge Road...the undulations
of impressions soon cascading...emerging...and
articulating the night with serial episodes of
138