John Firth, 29 y/o

Age: 29
Occupation: Low-life musician
Rolemodel: Marlon Brando, The guy who wrote "Catcher in the Rye"
Favorite color: Dark green

He paced his apartment, checked the window, twice.
Waiting for his lovers to arrive, he did this everytime.
After she'd left he'd always think of someone else,
this girl he once knew, dated even.
Not knowing that right now, everything revolved around
her, not his current lovers.
Where he lived, the sun set later then on most places
he had lived. Really he wanted to sleep.
After she left this evening he'd sit on the porch, waiting
for the street lights to light up again.
He'd count them clicking on, slowly another another step
for his 30th birthday.

If he only knew some people he didn't fuck.
He though about going away on the 8th of july, going down the country,
if he only knew where she lived. Maybe he could meet up with Brian again.
Going down the country he could actually live
in his car, he could, he thought.

When was it? Ten years ago. Her dress like plastic bags
packed for sale. Though she was not the love he was looking
for. Still wasn't. But if only he could see her now,
put a face on that mind sheltered mannequin.

She was late, but that didn't matter. He breathed in fog that tasted of his lawn.

Later, on top of her he'd remember, her name was Sarah Copsey.
The plastic bag girl.
He came quick outside of her.
Later that night he decided he would stay at home on the 8th.