Where the Unfortunate Go When They are Born
Desolate desolate desolate crowdedness. Crowded crowded crowded yet so derelict. The bystanders on the street praise the mutilated dancing chicken. The banners of the distant world flutter, competing with one another for every bit of attention. They couldn't be bothered to pick better material. Their buildings are erected here, though they seem to either be influenced by or slowly becoming overtaken by their surroundings. All must be too much or too little, but it is law that abundance is forbidden unless it is sorrow. There is no need to overcomplicate life with streets and roads if you can have both and no crosswalks. There is nothing for you out there, and nothing waiting for you at home. Where will you go when you wish to die? The corrupt children stare with hate in their eyes, or is that malice? Nevertheless, they are unknowingly eager to take their parents' place, exactly as they were taught to. Such is the will of God. The mannequin leans forward, almost lulled to rest by the tempting voice of gravity, as are we. Is it worse to stand upright or to be frozen in the moment before you fall? It's alright, for you love the city. Cement and wood perform their hideous coitus, and their offspring are worshipped by the ignorant. The monoliths and cubes, sculpted by anonymous hands long ago, offer only a pathetic, crude mimicry of beauty. Keep your eyes open when you walk, for the wild grass is green with gluttony, and will devour the stroad once it is done with the sidewalk. In my idle time I like to kick half-open rocks down the gravel footpath. I also like to kick up small mounds just to see the dust particles scatter and disappear with the wind. This is where my happiness is rooted, and others root theirs in taking pride in not kicking rocks down footpaths or scattering clouds of dust. Only when you rise above the impenetrable wall of murky clouds will you see something worth living for. But alas, for as long as you are on the earth, what comes up must come down.
