the radio plays next door with experts speaking about life, and i sit in the cold room while the two ones fight, on the sofa, on the floor, by the teevee wanting more of the same.
a new expert arrives in the studio explaining the show is true, his colleague agrees and explains that it’s worse than that; the price of life has fallen. drugs make people uber violent, drink causes them to become insane, lack of money allows them the luxury of depression and cigarettes are ultimately to blame. the two ones sprawled out on the wee mat by the window look up like snoopy and wag their tails and we forget that thankfully they kant vote. outside it’s miserable and the three men at home in the talking box continue talking.
the lovely girls marched in force last night with their candles and photo frames of indian princesses who wont be forgotten, crying threats of blackmail towards the house of the holy, awaiting the downfall of their establishment. human beings emotional on the dirty winter streets of the city, a collection of chemicals that activate and, after a period of time, deactivate, whiling away the intervening as pleasantly as possible with the placards and slogans re-enforcing their righteousness.
i strike a match and light my yellow.