Inside The Walls

Outside the walls, there is

screaming traffic. Rage of people

late to home. Angry snorts of those

waiting to cross the road. Tired people,

waiting to go home.

Inside the walls, there are books. There

is music, pretending all is well. A TV which

sulks silently. Beer. Smoke. Me. Or

some parts of all of that.

The internet fails, and I

panic. Looking at my phones, overcome

by the need to talk. I hold one in

each hand, awaiting a call. These are always set to

vibrate, I abhor calls notified by music- vulgar celebrations

of not being alone for the moment. Or,

may be, to hide the opposite.

Neither of them rings. I

stare and stare at them,

waiting. Inside the walls, the music reminds

me of something else. I go and

make some coffee. And suddenly

the internet starts working again. I

forget myself, in the bitter taste of coffee.