What does one possibly say to the abandoned traffic light, who’s not turning but refuses to hammer out this supposed future we’re always hearing so much about. Think of the tumbleweeds as they stroll through this forgotten town. What must they think of us? Our abandoned cars and putrefying corpses.
One gets the sense that this is not Kansas anymore. I want to feel the shape of your moan just before the equinox. Where the earth trembles and spits forth some blessed migrant. Can’t you see how crowded it is in here already? No more room. No more room.