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we meet regularly in coffee shops and kitchens blathering to each other. trying to fill the pauses with ourselves. we are the cerebral squatters. each of us hoping to dislodge some faint memory and replace it with our own pithy sayings and clever jousts. we who crawl from silence, hearing in it the hollow trudge into the grave. truth be told, if we were not acutely aware of our own decay we would hew each other as serial killers. and so we cope with our own self-righteousness, gathering weekly to plant our flag in the immortal. talking of our high school days and the african clinics we’ll open (when we become those we envy). like disillusioned adventurers we prattle on uncomfortable with stillness. uncomfortable with death. digging for eternity with each feeble adjective. thank god i’m not one of us.
jonathan d baker 7 15 04 |
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10,000 feet above the surface of the earth there is no justice in medicine
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