The worn out sun sits like lazy shoproom light at night, metalic walls and one bank vault to place things. The walls are glass, shared, people who poke and tap at it, they smear their noses against it, pass with children loud and a child screams after the popped balloon sets him off. There is nothing to satisfy, a river, flood that fills alot of ears. It is a sticking point for some who cant stand the straight the chaos of his pronouncement.
A police officer who is passing circles around this single indistinguishable restaurant that he was hired to gaurd. His peering eyes, a passing girl, his compartmentalizations: her breasts as she streamlines past. She pays no sort of notice to him and he makes no effort to hide the gaze of his gaping eyes.
I am trying to be extravigant right now- people who act in ways that i can´t get over, the shock effect, with barriers drawn, entertainment of pushing against glass. Outside lies the currency of stereotypes, the unreal made real because it has been written about
There is a feather fallen, a wheel-paste, an archive in the street, a thousand acts, opinions, I cannot keep track of my own hands.
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