Guts

Roaming bands of disaffected youth suck on vaporizers, coalescing in the crevices of the downtown square, trading tirades with passing homeless or the crazy who are really just talking to themselves anyway. The place looks the same really. That theater is still there, and the loud bar where you never got to sit down or barely even order over the din of dueling mating calls. And that eternally nameless building we used to wander through during art walks, poaching free wine and taking on that pose of contemplating art in order to deserve said wine. It’s emptied now, just gutted and cordoned off, waiting for the gentry, waiting to be something, waiting for the money to come back and save it from irrelevancy. I am here now and I am different. I see these people through a different set of eyes. Certain things decay and die and I judge it from a coffee shop window, never able to fully appreciate the pain and decimation of hope involved. But, every new flower sprouts from the dead. Decay becomes us, literally. Good for us. This square will rise from the broken dreams of the less fortunate. Nature has a terribly efficient way of making sure of that. No reason to mourn the absolute. The end will find us all.

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