Quiet Wednesday mornings in an ossified city of old money. The river growing colder before the sun is tucked away behind the clouds of fall. Tiny, needy wake-waves lapping at littered shores. Dreams held in the abeyance of banality. Again. The insidiousness of old age, hiding in plain sight-inevitability. I frown at an empty space, occupied by premature youth. This week is just reconstituted fairy tales. Pureed and spread thick across American mercantilism hobbyist zombies.

9:41 a.m. - 2019-10-02