P. S. Before Earl Wise Can Sting

    "We're all willing victims of the 'save your life' fantasy around here."
Calmly, he sucks down more of his
alternative-artist stamped coffee,
licks his
chapped lips,
swings the characteristic floppy hair out of his eyes
with a flourish.
    "It's pretentious, but addictive--the attraction lies in our humble-rule desires. We don't want to be kings, per se, but we still want the idolization."
The coffee cup arcs
smoothly through the espresso-
flavored air, misses the
trash can by about six
inches. He shrugs, far too cool
to care,
and laughs. He increases his
volume, making himself
nearly impossible to ignore,
folding and unfolding his worn-out gloves,
picking at his fingernails.
    "The ironic thing is, we try so hard to convince ourselves that we can do these noble deeds, building ourselves up in our own personal diaries,"
He spits these words out on the
becrumbed, trespassed floor;
(both are offensive to him.)
    "...That we never end up actually affecting anything. It's the well-worn path to 80-year old wanna-be syndrome."
He sighs loudly,
he sits in an uncomfortable chair;
he changes his mind,
he stands up. He unfolds each limb with a certain
grace, one that
pleads for an
audience.
    "We never listen. Not, at least, to anything important."
His voice gains a new, embittered edge.
He casually scans the
coffeeshop, as if
looking for an example to pick out,
someone who would look back at him,
maybe--
but finds noone.
The sound of laptop keys clicking
haphazardly fills the
air, heavy with a
three-second between-song break.
He tugs a hat over his ears, weakly
pushes the door open,
refuses to look back,
to see it swing shut as he
swaggers into the night
alone.