The air is thick with thoughts, zipping around the neon lights like frenzied insects, most of whom are destined to die with a buzz and crackle when the mind moves on to a new idea. Self-absorbed solitary figures stand around or sit in corners, their bulbous, top-heavy heads balanced on frail, malnourished bodies.

Spindly hands turn yellow parchments, smoke stained fingers with cracked nails try desperately to hold down single sentences on the page, and wet lips silently mumble grand ideas that rarely see the light of day. Like dry grass on cliffs, white wispy hair sprouts from foreheads that stretch and strain to hold up their faces, drooping under the weight of thick glasses.

Despite the dizzying roar of thoughts that pound these cerebral cliffs like deafening surf, there is silence in the somber, book-lined room as these meek and quiet people wrestle great ideas to the ground.

c 2007 Gennaro Brooks-Church

This entry was posted on Sunday, January 6th, 2008 at 6:45 pm and is filed under Non-Fiction. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.