Meeting life in it's myriad forms

Across the window is a wide range of beauties – dark skin, light skin, brown skin - that glimmers under their red wedding trousseaus, their white gowns vaguely bringing to mind 70s beauties and the blue dresses that wedge into thighs and buttcracks. There’s nothing that you wouldn’t know when you are this old, they tell me looking back at myself out of the window.

We wait for the lights to turn green, looking far and wide, into ourselves and outside the circle of life, counting our steps into the countdown.

I am slipping away even as I speed further into the web of life.

The neon lights leave marks on my bare legs. His big tummy caresses the steering wheel as he shifts, at discomfort with the creatures of the night rustling their wares outside. I notice thin white lines of a smile, a smirk, a leer.

The sky winks with a crescent moon that follows us where we go.

They know they aren’t getting lucky tonight. Not with us, they wont. Because parents aren’t interested in orgies. Not with their children at least.
This is how they get back at the life they can never have, as D would say.

I smile back because that is the most polite thing to do when you’ve stared at cleavage for more than 15 seconds.

They smile and I can hear the lewd male voice swear. A muscle ripples in his face as he laughs and pulls at his own tits.

Outcasts mar you and I can never tell you how that feels.

If nobody’s said it yet, somebody ought to:
What are these words but a pale imitation of reality?