I guess not.
Sympathies fail in ways unknown:
Retroactively. Intrusively. Despotically.
I never attended a rally like those going on in today’s creamy oceans of America’s collective subconsciousness.
I don’t know where anyone is or why they would return when scenic crimes transfer thermostatic continuums from cigar box to cigar box, swerving at times but essentially maintaining control of tweedy opinions.
In the future we may never find competence for sustained employment, for reliable trust of strangers who occupy undiscovered economics, who rearm glossaries with fantastical nonsense revamped from thrown-out convictions.
Powerless second chances flourish like spit droplets, unrefined but capable of providing nourishment to children’s games and the silly delusions kept secret by married couples.
We gather to witness erosions of frivolously-maintained principles, luckily alive as boardrooms’ colloquial emptiness flowers into hard-earned disappointment.
Volumes will be written about these times but none who survive will read, learn, or believe enough to verify that the few surviving rumors are anything but myth.
Water will flow, hurrying at times, through abandoned libraries and basements, flowing through past glories where legacies died amid evaporated sounds of nocturnal interference.
Water keeps the foundation alive but its bitter heels split like acorns crushed by mountains, justifying its scorn with unidentifiable satisfaction.
