The washing machine scared me, giving me inspiration to write

The fucking washing machine made the gnarliest noise possible. In turn, it made me want to write a little bit.

I saw the streets of Chicago once again, absolutely astounded by the buildings surrounding me. My new look Tuesday was "out-of-towner", or a tourist, although I struck my feet on the sidewalk with poise as I was guiding me and Chris down the streets. Although I knew my direction, I still had that feel of oddity as I noticed how each building was still trying to out-touch the other. However lifeless they are, they still want to be better than the next. This kind of atmosphere almost breeds that type of "dog-eat-dog" attitude.

I one day envision myself resting my head on a pillow in one of those high rise apartments. Not just in any apartment though. The ones that I look at when I visit the windy city. I will one day call it my home. However, after a visit there not too long ago, I realize that sometimes, I can't keep up. Time was almost at a stand still, while the people were at full force, using every second to their advantage. Meanwhile, I'm left standing idly on the sidewalk, gawking at those massive "window structures". The city moves at twice the speed of light. Chris and I would check our phones, looking at the time, only to notice that a few minutes had passed. We had figured at least an hour had passed, when only 12 minutes had passed. The place is full of madness, while I'm left, still wasting away at the "window thing pointing towards the sky".