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Description
I walked listening to the sound of my own heels tapping the sidewalk. My skin was cold under my fur coat. The coat was large on me. It did nothing to protect my wholly net stocking legs from the city winds. My hair still held that Veronica Lake curl despite the dampness.
I walked passed the crowds of people looking at the every unique face. Every face tells a story. A old man's with mustache and crocked smile tells a story of a poor family man kind to every soul and the story of a man who worked hard his entire life. A man who will die when he stops working. A woman's face with a sharp nose and too much make up to cover her former beauty tells the story of a ex-hooker who got beat up to many times from crazy costumers. A young child's faces holds the story of an innocent world not yet soiled by adluts. So many people. So many faces. So many stories.
I walk on further and I sward I can hear the down beat of a horn blowing in my ear. I look around but there's no bar or no musician. The music notes were apart of a by gone era. The notes are from my own story. My own lost story in the sea of countless others. My faces tells that I was a dancer and that I knew love in the deepest of passion. I knew the stage and the lights and the crowds of people coming to see me. I was a dancer in a glamorous time.
Now the world has grown up around me. I'm to simple for them now. I'm to modest. I don't understand the way they talk. I can't comprehend the new things they carry with them. In short I'm too old. I'm no longer beautiful and I no longer belong here. Age is a treble thing. I keep walking straight and keep my head high I have nothing left but my dignity.

Maybe someday I'll fit in again. Maybe someday I'll dance again.

Description
I walked listening to the sound of my own heels tapping the sidewalk. My skin was cold under my fur coat. The coat was large on me. It did nothing to protect my wholly net stocking legs from the city winds. My hair still held that Veronica Lake curl despite the dampness.
I walked passed the crowds of people looking at the every unique face. Every face tells a story. A old man's with mustache and crocked smile tells a story of a poor family man kind to every soul and the story of a man who worked hard his entire life. A man who will die when he stops working. A woman's face with a sharp nose and too much make up to cover her former beauty tells the story of a ex-hooker who got beat up to many times from crazy costumers. A young child's faces holds the story of an innocent world not yet soiled by adluts. So many people. So many faces. So many stories.
I walk on further and I sward I can hear the down beat of a horn blowing in my ear. I look around but there's no bar or no musician. The music notes were apart of a by gone era. The notes are from my own story. My own lost story in the sea of countless others. My faces tells that I was a dancer and that I knew love in the deepest of passion. I knew the stage and the lights and the crowds of people coming to see me. I was a dancer in a glamorous time.
Now the world has grown up around me. I'm to simple for them now. I'm to modest. I don't understand the way they talk. I can't comprehend the new things they carry with them. In short I'm too old. I'm no longer beautiful and I no longer belong here. Age is a treble thing. I keep walking straight and keep my head high I have nothing left but my dignity.

Maybe someday I'll fit in again. Maybe someday I'll dance again.