Rain-slick streets throwing back neon smears. Eyes that have seen near-endless iterations. The Street (as opposed to the street) moves through the same tired dance of commerce. Who's buying, who's selling, what's for sale, it's all been done and done long before my zygote days, and will be done and done long after I am unwise, unvaliant dust. Everything seems just a touch worn, grubby, tired. Including me. Or maybe more than a touch. I want to scrub-- not my soul. Maybe my aspirations. Maybe my faith. Maybe I need to burnish my regard for my fellow men. And women.
Or maybe I just need to go live in a cave.
Hearing the existential hum a little more loudly tonight.
2 comments:
Maybe you need to go shopping in Orchard Rd more often - enjoy the crush of greedy humanity, get acculturated to them bashing you out of the way in the time-honoured spirit of Avaricious Consumption, sorry the Advent Calendar - btw those awesome reflected fairy lights were sponsored by a very important company... (the one that pays my salary.)
I hate Orchard Road with a fiery hate that is fiery and hateful.
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