pretz-a-porter.

Hello little pretzel who had your own seat on the r train this morning. how did you get there? what stop did you get on at?

o, the stories i could weave about your woven golden dough. o, the salty tears someone might be shedding over the loss of your salty crunch.

my rule has always been that if i have enough time to interact with a piece of trash--usually, this refers to kicking a piece of garbage down the street--i have enough time to pick it up and throw it out. and i do so.

o pretzel, capturing your visage with my cell phone spirit-catcher was certainly interaction enough. but i left you where you were. sitting there like that, you were too perfect and mysterious for me to move.

besides, i didnt know where you were supposed to get off.