I do so wish the man in the next booth was some great poet. A poet I've never heard of, yet famous and spectacular. A poet who could mentally kick my ass around the room twice over, and who would so, be given the chance. I look at him, and I try to imagine the beauty; his beauty. I close my eyes, and he sits there chewing his breakfast. He's not thinking that the coffee's cold, that the food tastes like shit, or that the waitress smells the same. Not thinking twice that she may even look like shit he grins at the thought and scribbles the last line of a poem from his up-coming best seller onto a dirty napkin that he's wiped his bacon greased hands with. I hold my eyes and he sits. In his face a reflection of youth still shines. My saviour sits a dying breed. "One of the greats," I say to myself. I want to approach him, and like a beggar on bruised knees ask for just a touch. A touch of the hand, the mind, just anything. Even an autograph! It is here he is sitting, with me I tell you! I take a deep breath, and I open my eyes to greet the master; the genius; the poet. But he is not the poet. He's simply a sorry old man, who thinks the coffee is bitter, and who thinks the food is nothing short of completely raw. Yes, he's simply on old man, scribbling his name and phone number on a dirty napkin, there is a waitress he's suddenly grown fond of.Birth sign: Sagittarius
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