Inteldogpile

A huge grimy truck speeding up to the red light, I can hear the gears shifting, the engine roar alters pitch. A long line of bikers pushing against the wind. I pass them when I can but the water isn't rippling enough to sufficiently recreate the drama. Feel like dismemberment plan doing what DC bands were doing fifteen years ago with more sophisticated production. Silence settles in when the third person chooses to work. Harder than it was supposed to be. A bowling shirt. An angry look, a stare down from a middleaged mad wearing a back pack, I wonder at how strangers moods effect one another, and smile at all the rest of the people I see, but the smile is a caricature, a joker grin that only confuses people. When will I get to sing on the bike, breathlessness of late, out of shape, should make a regular habit of taking the lake, halsted is an easy route, though more dangerous. Don't get the work out.