Three Week Countdown

20 days.

Where was the engine of creation that used to manifest one and all dreams of the seasons? Did it sputter and break down upon the heated asphalt of the city, so rotund and obese from its gluttonous binges of property development. Cosmopolitan dreams. The lie grows thin like a string. If only it could be cut - then we would see the legs of this concrete body begin to lose traction. It would fall, try to cry out, instead, emit a cloud of ash and curses. And then it would furiously claw at the very ground we stand on - an island, which is where we stand; we shepherds are spared from society. We shall look at it dead-on. We cannot find its eye so we meet it when it reveals itself to us. We would be daring enough to be the rebel, luring this tyrant up from the cracks and rocks from which it hides itself so well - camouflaged in plain sight - only to be smited by the one truth. Its organs rupture because how can it profess necessary vanity while losing all of its marbles and makeup? You are like a sunny-side up egged flipped into a nightmare because you are slipping. And so, we finally find a reason to embrace the black hole