I am done here, so I move on relieved. The hum of the road, the stopping and going, the transforming landscape-they play with my body. I am a child's toy to the speed of the tires and the solid of the mutilated earth. So the clock is filled with conversation. Just as long as something is said, as long as a new word is used, a scandal is discussed.
Words are insignificant misspellings.
They are as versatile as ink, and they propel us into the crowded streets toward the empty meter. We exit the crouched domicile of transported objects and having locked it on all sides, we pay for our stay and begin with our boots to the cold concrete slabs. We tread on cracks and gravel with each step while avoiding the occasionally misplaced wrapper or leaf. The hours are claimed by the advertisement and merchandising of the local businesses. With each block we find a new locale, a new salesman, mannequin, garment, thread.