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I hate the rain the tunnels are strained as people surge and strain my angst beyond explain my senses overloaded with pain as the air is stained with cacophony like trains i would surrender my gains without complaints just to have this wane
Ground up sludge of softened beans Paradox of sweet and salty Flakey crust burnished gold Palm sized pieces in handfuls sold New rituals over time become old Treasured memories left in moulds
the uncle down at the Fairprice sets about his Sisyphean task pushing shopping carts can’t be nice but to him it’s not too much to ask he hauls trains of trollies up the floors past glassy eyed shoppers trundling through the doors; who having forgotten the proper use of hands; push their scantily filled carts, and …
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