They were disagreeing vehemently as to whether the hikoi was an appropriate spectacle for the church to have organised. Yesterday evening, I approached the door to my apartment building through heavy rain and burdened by several large bags of groceries. Through the glass I saw two young tenants sitting on the steps inside, their clothes purposefully sloppy, their faces nearly lifeless. They watched, half-conscious, as I struggled to retrieve my key and open the door. Neither moved to lend a hand, and neither looked at me directly.
Popular music is insipid or outright vomitous, and it fills the streets.
Everywhere, eyes are unfocused, heads are lowered. Such a happy, unanswerable rejoinder is the buoyancy of Tchaikovsky's Piano Concerto, or the elegant fact of suspension bridges. The writer of these words is not some battle-weary curmudgeon like myself. And I can think of no more beautiful words with which to bid you all adieu.