But then our history is sad, we never really get back home, we’re spirits roaming the street. Humans when they’re done with us, when they’ve ripped apart all that matters to us, the toss aside into the wind and then we become dirt, we become part of what the hate.
Mother was in one of the armchairs and not only was I surprised to see that she filled the chair, but she was sitting in the darkness.
Outside the atmosphere is hot, bodies press into space. Hate drops on the floor, love waves hello from the counter where colorful things lie at a cost. Loneliness scrolls through a phone. Sadness stares vacant at a movie trailer playing on a large TV screen. Anger folds movie tickets into condensed pockets. There’s a city here…