It’s too late to be talking. Caroline tells me to give up. Give up, give up, her green eyes speak to me. He’s not worth it - he’s not worth you. He’s just another one of them. Those people, who think they’ve got you entwined in their cookie cutter lives. Like gingerbread men and women sent to their sugar - coated gingerbread houses, who have gingerbread children with gingerbread brains. The assembly - line barbie and ken dolls who can give out their monopoly money freely. Until the paper runs out. It’ll run out, and run out and run out. And then they’ll use stone. They’ll all use it. Every single one of those people - they’ll walk around with their heavy stone money.

It’s ugly and filthy from the dirt that it came from. Their maids can’t clean it off - their footprints are permanent. The maids will run - and run around to scrub the hard wood floors, but it catches up to them too quickly. Even he can’t escape his fate. And when I see him at the coffee shop - that blue eyed boy, he’ll look. And laugh. But his burden weighs him down, and his back will become bent and....and, that day I saw him? Remember, remember, that fateful day I saw him again in June? I stopped. I became a melting ice sculpture - the summer sun too hot against my exposed back. Getting burned from the every present UV rays. But the sweat pouring down my neck has nothing to do with the ninety degree temperatures - it has to do with the simplicity of my own nerves.

This feeling, this feeling of my heart falling to my toes. My latte, so perfect - so sterile in it’s little plastic cup - so seemingly safe. That latte, when it spilled. When it spilled it flowed through the cracks on the concrete sidewalk. Like the too many rivers all around the world. The rivers that divide the states and the countries; That divide too many people.