City of Tears
As the ghostly songstress resumes her song, you begin to hear that same voice that has been singing as part of the background noise
As the ghostly songstress resumes her song, you begin to hear that same voice that has been singing as part of the background noise
Life there doesn’t confuse me, but it’s no longer what I’m accustomed to. I’ve become a real city slicker.
Two monuments then, intertwined: one to wonders and another to horrors.
I spend eons meticulously rotating the rack and considering which postcard could be catered to each of my friends.
There’s always someone to wave to.
You reached your hand out of the ocean of people, standing stock-still in the middle of an intersection while the masses swarmed around you, and I took it.
I can’t know the spot where an elderly lady always sold them fresh sugar bread or the field where they played ampe.
My dad called me while we watched in silence and I said, “I don’t want to live here anymore.”
There are single family homes and giant, shiny apartment buildings and about six 7-Elevens in my square mile.
The Moscow transit system looks more like a jellyfish than Ursa Major looks like a bear.