and Dostoyevsky wrote in prison.

As I walked into the street I thought

about Keats,

and how people in such a place like England

have considered him to be a great poet

probably since he was 20 odd years old,

and how Jack London worked like a dog,

and could still write a thousand words

everyday of the week.

That was pretty hard, and it made life a bit too cold.

But I walked down the street anyway,

I crossed the lights and I kept walking,

I met my boss at the corner store near the truck

like any other day,

and as we drank coffee

girls kept passing by, on their way to work, home, their way out or

any other way but 

for some reason, like we probably had one too to be standing there,

they kept passing by, more beautiful than anything else I could think of.

There was, in fact, no thinking. There was silence.

Then my boss finally spoke:

- There! Look there, that one, the one on the left, short,

with the brown boots, see?

- Yep.

- Man, I just feel like... Eating them boots...All of it...

I laughed.

And as I sipped my coffee I thought, well,

the world's not a bad place after all 

and life was good enough to be happy.