We step off. Footsteps light and fast then heavy and slow.
My eyes to the the ground, I shrug and falter slightly on a loose cobblestone.
There is no right rhythm for this, I think to myself.
Satiric, sure.
A revolution and I may become independent, I think to myself.
She may not get the joke.
Not very funny, anyway. I never really studied. This gets me laughing and she cocks her head askew.
1830's? Revolution?
But, I don't say it. She won't get it.
I am a speck on "the Belgian window" and all I feel is a cool breeze and a sick joke.
Even the astronauts know where they're going.
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good read bro
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