echoes in the hallways of always

...and still moving in circles

patience is a virtue of which the value escapes me... i'm all high-speed, no time to stop and smell the flowers... emotions and experiences pass 2 quickly 2 b consciously absorbed, instead beneath it all a constant pondering adds a humming soundtrack 2 life... like the incessant buzz of city life... silence is golden, but once we loose ourselves in our internal autobiography, stagnation sets in, like a pause button, and we fail 2 see beyond the current frame... an impressionistic still-life, a motion-blur, like wall street on an autumn moring... and that old bastard melancholy creeps up, like a choking shadow casting itself across the scene... we pretend its dark and the illusion of our eye-sight failing becomes an excuse... always... never... there is no such thing