I hate the wind

There's a goodmorning vibe in the way they - she? - stirs the creme into her coffee. Too bad it's 3pm and I've been awake all day and all the previous night and all fucking week for all anybody knows. This isn't a likely place for me to be, with the sidewalk cafes and the trendy shops and the young girls that walk around without having to think about living or working for anyone else in their life. 

I wonder if they - she? - knows what I'm thinking. Clever lipstick smile, clever smiling eyes, clever Lucifer peeking out from under her skirt.. or is that the wind? They - she? - know(s) what I'm thinking. They - she? - can sense it like some vulture smelling out a rotting carcass. Her delicate high heeled shoes strategically reveal her delicate ankles, and her skirt the beginning of her thighs. Those muscles and her skin are unbearably suggestive, though she herself is not. But I'm not tempted. Even if she were eager, I'm not tempted. 

There's a - in the - and over the - is something and they like to see me, stop now? 
Something to do with the wind. 

Have you ever been as suspicious as you are of me now, girl? Did you know that I'm a young woman, just like her? Or are you sure that I'm a young man? An old man? Sometimes I switch between characters, like in dreams and things. Trade a purse for a wallet and then for a pocket full of change. I'm all of them, everybody. 

You don't have the secrets you think you do, 
because I know them all. I wrote them all. 

Goodmorning to the girl stirring her coffee at 3 pm, goodmorning to all the girls on this boulevard. Ever wonder what the wind thinks when he caresses your hair and limbs and face? He doesn't think about you, that's for sure! So you shouldn't worry too much about him either.