"the prosaic poetry of everyday speech*"

There were cirrus clouds today.
You know the lament that everyone's always looking at the ground, they never look up? I am not that lament. I can't stop looking up. I walked to work with the nearness of tripping over sidewalk cracks because the sky was striped. Veritably striped with lines of clouds in perfect measurement. What was this formation? How was the rest of the world not in neck-craned unison with me? Art! Art, children! There's art above us! [I'm being too pretentious, je m'ecuse]
When I entered the grill I rushed to the counter to ask anyone if they knew what kind of clouds they were. If I was to find the information out anywhere I'm sure I could find it out at the grill. I'm certain that with the wide range of people there I could find out anything.
Cirrus.
It's a layman's library. A conversational library.
My bit to throw into the pot from a short life of experience and periodic shy-dom:
keep saying hello.
Maybe the receiver is a bit slow to hello back.
Someday they might be ready to respond--what jokes you could find then sending laughs down into grandchildren's upturned eyes--but you've withdrawn. Oh frowns and busy streets of New York.
We're all intimidating dinosaurs.

I hear tell the Movie-quoter wore a hideous wig and make-up yesterday for Halloween. He went around tossing his synthetic strands telling everyone he was beautiful.

I've beat the french lab at their own game. I have a friend qui teaches some such of the français. He's all about the revolution baby.

*Worthen The Wadsworth Anthology of Drama