I sit in the midst of a trendy addiction trying to shade my writing and self from the sun and gossip.
A group of young fashionistas gather to express their opinions about subjects beyond their knowledge, but always revert to the safety of what they know best: judgment of others who have their backs turned.
A son with aspirations to travel, not to be cultured but rather sound hip, sits across from his mother who boasts her own experiences, holding onto her youth with pigtails that aren’t fooling pigs.
A man strolls by with a fedora and a strapless black acoustic ax resting on his shoulder–the body is too pristine for any proven talent, and an excuse is always in the holster if asked to perform a ballad.
The only normal ones among this popular mid-morning crowd are the two dark young canines that continue to pant, drool, and show interest in a man with a journal, maybe hoping for stray scraps to fall.
He has nothing to offer.