I walk home each of the days that I work, by or near, the street on which these posters are hung. Or is it posted? I wonder about the goings-on inside the storefront where they are, behind the steel black door from which they must emanate. Artists, I'm sure. Perhaps living a life that I might want to, or perhaps living one that resembles the one I've already lived, the one that I chose to further avoid, whenever possible.
I heard myself tonight in a bar, after work, drinking a beer, offering sagely advice to one of my work friends, telling him to produce more than he consumes, and other gems on how to get by, how to accept the dull slow-motion death that is subsistence, how to negotiate his own way across the river styx.
I had to leave. I couldn't bear to hear any more, another word and I might have cut out my tongue.
"Femme fatales emerged from shadows to watch this creature fair,
boys stood upon their chairs to make their point of view,
and I smiled sadly for a love I could not obey..."
-David Bowie
I want to know what goes on behind that door, that latch, 22.
It might be like overhearing a foreign conversation, fascinating and intriguing at first, but then dull and disappointing in time, once the details emerge, when the result becomes clear, evident.
All of the conversations of strangers end up on Facebook eventually.
One need only like away...
Facebook is not the breakthrough in insincerity that we had hoped it would be, that we had all secretingly longed for.
It's not even a secret steel door with a ramp.
I must know....
.
