Honoring the Dead Script

There was a girl walking through the city, crying. Not bawling, but obviously distraught-faced with eyes trying to keep her cheeks up. Her jaw drags down, and it ruins her business attire. Now, I love all women, probably the sad ones most. Maybe I feel I can offer them more. But I didn't feel that need to grip her. Instead, I felt proud of our culture, as if this sight of seeing a girl walk crying through the city was not a sign of detachment, abandonment, but of liberation.

It was a fine near-evening, with limitless clouds and pastries wafting in the air. My only complaint was my belt, which had to be pulled and latched a bit more since the fit of my pants were "slimmer." Normally, I hated days like this, when the clouds kept my eyes low, the sounds of the square were uncheerful, and the people's faces left me intoxicated with indifference. But then there's this girl.

Sexually raging, sure. Desperate for a desperate hole, always. Yet as I stated, and I know I'm repeating myself, those feelings never weighed on my concern. If concern is what you'd call it. No, I was caught in the glance and stuck in the afterthought, maybe because I was proud of her. I know I couldn't cry, out in the open, nevertheless in front of these city buildings. Who is the victim here? Who is the one starving for attention?

When I reached the bus stop, and sat down upon the cold, stained cloth, my mind kept with her. Not necessarily her face, her look, but of her action, her status. I want to be with her, walking a few paces behind, listening to her meek furrows and waiting for some description. Now I know I'll never have it, and the day goes back to meaningless.