Secret Pop

Jan 16, 2002

To sleep, perchance to sleep.

So tired. So drained. So lacking the visceral urge to do anything.

The Olympic torch passed by my office last night. I watched from the window and grew impatient because the preceding motorcade created unwarranted anticipation. There were motorcycle police driving slowly down Wilshire Boulevard a good thirty minutes before anyone in a jogging suit happened by.

I did not go down to the curb and wave. I did not cheer. And I was careful not to touch my face to the window lest it leave a mark.

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