Vocal Glasses

Paths

It was nearing the end of another minute, another hour, another day and another week tracing undeniably bland paths through monotonous doldrums, without purpose. Trying to impress, but feeling rather empty. Reaching for something, yet left lonely. Last call had already happened. A night had been lost to vain attempts to infuse novelty into the corners of a city strewn with old brick walls and gutters of refuse left unswept. It was drizzling slightly. In the small puddles the capillary waves of the gentle raindrops scintillated in the rays of warm yellow street light diffracted through the faint mist. Walking the alleys on the way to retreat to a familiar place to sleep, colored disco lights could be seen in a room several stories above, with an iconic saxophone solo fading away into lyrics whispering to me as I walked away; “Share it fairly but don’t take a slice of my pie.” Staring at the ground a small black book suddenly presented itself before my feet. It looked rather freshly arrived. Not particularly dirty and not particularly wet. So conspicuous and dapper why not open it? The first few pages had an odd little ledger of some sort of address followed by a number and what was probably an alias.