112. Traffic

The summer brightness stung him pleasantly. There might have well been a smiley face on the sun because as he looked around he felt like he was in a cartoon, or a musical, when at any given moment the folks on the street would break into song and dance in unison. But his reality wasn’t all tra la la. Idealism is a killer.

111. Mannequins

She stared incredulously wondering who belonged to this tribe. It was bizarre and foreign. It occurred to her that these beings had never ate scavenged leftovers and possibly never ate at all. Sometimes she never ate, but it was not by choice. Pressing her unwashed hair behind her ear and lifting her chin, she tried to feel pretty. It didn’t work. She sank inwards and walked on with her coins jangling in her paper coffee cup.

110. Biker poster

It was destined to be a lifelong distraction. Others thought he was just obsessed, he saw it as passionate. It dictated much of what he would pursue in life, this never-ending examination of hunks of metal and machinery motivated him. In a moment of solitary crisis he would realize it was a poor excuse for not having relationships with people. Luckily he had enough time to make up for that.

109. Apartments

He blamed himself for a vision that had gone so wrong. His intentions had been misguided and he would spend an eternity, that is, his lifetime, trying to right them. Dogged and piqued with ideas, he did his best work from there on in. No praise resulted and few paid notice. He would forever be labeled for the folly of the concrete curtain. The weight of which was unbearable.