The sound. I can't even trust the sound. There are too many sounds. There's one of two bus lines populated with buses. They drive the fat people to work. There's a timeclock to punch. I punched one once, for years. I entered through the employee entrance, punched one. It was 1987. It was just yesterday that I punched out. The men had all died, and the women changed their names. I forgot to write something down.
Inside the lake, a bulging lake called life, we walk on submerged sidewalks. A young fellow sits at a cafe table, curbside, and types away on a really old manual typewriter. I would ask him who his heroes are, but I don't care and hums of Lou Reed are overhead. In the next doorway a young guy sleeps, although by the looks of him, he may be dead.
And a deadline nears. This shit, and that's really what it is, has to get done. And should that happen, I hope to collect a paycheck.
Still, we're nowhere close to it, and we are nowhere.
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