Here's something you might be interested in.
The UTC is an urban wasteland. Condos stacked four, six, eight stories high, stretching for half a block and curling around street corners. Same-faced kids standing with their same-faced notebooks waiting for the bus. An army of white Civics and blue Jettas passing through countless green and sometimes yellow lights.
I live in a condo, too. And you need a code to get into my complex. Simple numbers swing open an iron gate protecting my all-too-precious parking space. Number 735 - that’s mine. Unit 355 – that’s mine too. Mailbox number – well, now why give my whole life away if I don’t have to?
I don’t have to. I’ll get along all the same. Canvas of blank faces going here and there and I’m going too. To the grocery store at 7:00, to the mall at 8:00. To the dog park with my five-month-old puppy. Oh, you have a puppy, too? I’m a prospective student. Oh, you’re a student, too?
The UTC’s peppered window squares pattern the night and illume cement paths in the curious absence of streetlights. Which is nice when it’s 5:45 and time to walk to the Doyle Dog Park.
And the background of cool beige stucco, row after row of living quarters and living quarters and living quarters, is easy to ignore when all you want to look at are your live-in boyfriend’s eyes.
I guess the constant sunshine isn’t too bad, either.
If it doesn’t work out in the UTC, you can always fade away. Leave the keys on your granite counter and take your little welcome mat. And boyfriend. And puppy. Five paces going and you’ll forget which cement block was yours, the automatic sprinklers washing any footprint trace.
And I'll never know you were here.
The UTC is an urban wasteland. Condos stacked four, six, eight stories high, stretching for half a block and curling around street corners. Same-faced kids standing with their same-faced notebooks waiting for the bus. An army of white Civics and blue Jettas passing through countless green and sometimes yellow lights.
I live in a condo, too. And you need a code to get into my complex. Simple numbers swing open an iron gate protecting my all-too-precious parking space. Number 735 - that’s mine. Unit 355 – that’s mine too. Mailbox number – well, now why give my whole life away if I don’t have to?
I don’t have to. I’ll get along all the same. Canvas of blank faces going here and there and I’m going too. To the grocery store at 7:00, to the mall at 8:00. To the dog park with my five-month-old puppy. Oh, you have a puppy, too? I’m a prospective student. Oh, you’re a student, too?
The UTC’s peppered window squares pattern the night and illume cement paths in the curious absence of streetlights. Which is nice when it’s 5:45 and time to walk to the Doyle Dog Park.
And the background of cool beige stucco, row after row of living quarters and living quarters and living quarters, is easy to ignore when all you want to look at are your live-in boyfriend’s eyes.
I guess the constant sunshine isn’t too bad, either.
If it doesn’t work out in the UTC, you can always fade away. Leave the keys on your granite counter and take your little welcome mat. And boyfriend. And puppy. Five paces going and you’ll forget which cement block was yours, the automatic sprinklers washing any footprint trace.
And I'll never know you were here.