Tired

Tired of this plain life, his body, gathering time, getting old, just waiting to die. He hates this time of the day, when it's dark and the crickets are chirping, but it's too early to go to bed. He's not tired yet, but he wishes he was. Sitting out in the patio, he watches the planes pass by every 5 minutes. The load whistling roar they make as they pass a few hundred feet above him, The airport is right around the corner. As they open their landing gear, he watches and wonders how it is that people travel so often.. Every single day, every hour, someone is going some where, but he's always here. Sitting under the stars, jet fuel particles slowly falling and gathering on his body, just as it does on the roof of his house. The clouds tear apart and leave a perfect open gap, cloudless, for Peter to look up and stare at the brightly gleaming, shy moon. Peter would much rather be dreaming... He finishes his drink and decides to go to his bed and try to sleep, he has nothing better to do.