The very old tiles still have color, but the sun on the corner is foreign today and doesn’t translate well.
It’s the nomenclature of the poor and the rich don’t speak it, they who own the hills, and weep at their bacchanal lifestyle.
They gorge themselves on the daily dose of opprobrium served on day-old paper. This we share.
The odor of humanity follows by fiat after the day’s wanderings. To the dismay of anti-septics everywhere.
There is still the illusion of ephemera as comfort, but alas, it is not the case.