He was never one to sit and watch television.
He would sit cross-legged on top of the tube, look out the window and watch the world outside.

He saw people mulling around, in their various costumes, walking to work, to play, to eat.

Dressed to impress, dressed for success, dressed with distress.

He would imagine their lives and write their stories on the invisible pages of the future. Not the story that everyone knew; the obvious, surface-level travelogue of day-to-day happenings.

But the story that was waiting, wanting to be told. The story they wanted desperately to tell, but did not know where to begin.

Or who would listen.

Because maybe the story didn't have a happy ending.

Or maybe it didn't have an ending at all...

image via deviantart

1 comment:

Katie said...

sooooo...whenever you make this a book...I call a first edition.