Uncertainty

He walks the misty boulevard, hands in his pockets, fingering loose change. Bad ideas dance around on his tongue. He trains his eyes on the distance before him, its dark shroud enfolding him as a mother enfolds an infant in her tender arms. He trains his eyes on the distance before him, but he sees nothing in it, nothing beyond it. Only a formless mass of uncertainty. Bad ideas dance around on his tongue, but he doesn’t say anything, just keeps walking the misty boulevard, hands in his pockets, fingering loose change.

-r. miller

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