Player of the Game

Tadhana by Up Dharma Down

_beadel: People. Have I told you before how much they scare me? They take the beauty off the nights and exchange it with noises- blank, cold ones; pure abstractions -that when you go out into the day, you've already become this disgusted monster not really willing to give the world a chance. Just like the night, one changes into something unbearable. I remember you changing it- altering my evenings. You would often sit with me, here in this place, with one hand holding your raspberry infused coffee and the other tracing invisible shapes against the misty window. I remember getting jealous of the attention you were giving it. But you turned to me, swatted me softly by the arm, and leaned on me gently, very gently; your coffee breath fanning my face in the most intimate manner. I knew then and there, better nights have come my way. 

But then you had to go and leave nothing but the traces of the same blank and cold statics. How could I ever forget that you are one of the people?

_beadel: Altruism: ever since you stole that board from the adjoining restaurant and wrote a C.S. Lewis quote, they never put it down again. The waiter who served me my mocha bellaccino, the same one whom we saw at the Brooklyn bridge playing the violin with the kids, told me the owner of the restaurant had given it to them as a gift (more like a tacky donation since the restaurant had gotten a new electric blackboard). The waiter sends you his regards and that we should see him play at the Blue Note sometime in February. 

A few years later and you still have that effect on people. I guess I can't blame them.