Chuck Perrin

The trees reached out and grabbed my sweater, as I walked by. I almost didn’t notice because the wind had been talking my ear off, whining incessantly about how nobody takes real responsibility for their actions anymore. The world, according to her, has become a colossal Casino filled with amateurs — bouncing off the walls in desperate attempts to score the mythical daily double. Manic marauders falling all over themselves to live up to some contrived code of consciousness, puppeted by religion or politics or, in the end, economics. It all always comes down to money, doesn’t it?
Everything may be different, but nothing has changed.
“Where are the dreamers?” the glowering stars shouted down – almost in unison – spilling an ever so slight mist that shrouded the early morning hour and gave the half light a gleary, impressionistic kind of glow.
I pretended I didn’t hear their question and pressed on, bent down to the hard scrabble street.