Tired cars with tired drivers are slowly driving by me under
a mint-coloured sky, and I can just hear the mileage gather
below me on the freeway where all life is our life. Moaning.
It's a jazzy rhythm of clanking machine-parts that grow and
fade, fade and grow, never stopping but to start all over again.
Sometimes. Occasionally a lost soul wanders the bicycle-path
through snow the colour of a smokers lung and the asphalt,
the asphalt seems to grow up from underneath, eating its way
through the white cape of frozen air and water while it is silently
lurching and lunging and biting after every living thing it
cannot get to. The noise. The sound of weakening steps
through sludge and machine-crud is like someone gnawing
lustily on the soles of passers by wearing rubber and dead
animals on their feet for the sake of protection. There is a bus
going by, but there sure ain't nothing else out here. This is the
place where people pass through. There is no point in staying.
They never stop to think so why should I think about stopping
Ingen kommentarer:
Legg inn en kommentar