You lack all poeticism. . .

The sky was morose. Dark clouds hung acrimoniously low, blotting the twilit expanse with seeds of animosity. Drastically I clung to my coat, hoping that in some twisted way it could shield me from the tormenting gale. I tried the door. 'Damn, no good. How do I get into these situations?' I thought, as images of a comfortable chair and book teased my mind.
"No good, we'll have to find another way."
'This is surreal.'
It was only moments ago that laughter rang through the air, but that was centuries ago now. Nothing more then a fleeting feeling of unidentified longingness, the desire for something you never knew existed.
As I carefully found my footing along the narrow path, it struck me again how violently morbid my surroundings were; even the headlights of the car were jealously knawed at, as though the bleakness hoped to consume them.
I tried each window. No hope.
"Quite the atmosphere, huh?" I said trying to lift spirits.
"Why do you say that?"----

Me:



My mother folks. . .

So then, we all know one, who do you know that has about as much poetical sense as a leather shoe?