VENTURE FORTH CAPITALISTS from LOVE AND QUARTERS BY GABRIEL RICARD
We don’t get the benefit of ghosts pushing the hotdog carts down the street.
The horrified drivers of every car that’s stuck in the standstill remain glued to their selfish perception and remain fixed on the future of the summertime.
No one locks their doors, and since the sirens only exist in dimming speculation, they all sound like a nauseating banquet of Frank Sinatra songs. I don’t ask for permission to squeeze your hand. Sorry about that.
I’m distracted by who is leading who to what is hopefully a livelier dance in the new museum of the jewelry, Nokia tablets, and winter coats district.
I’m in love with fifteen minutes ago, and I’m a dreamy word problem about how attentive I am to the little bookstore that’s leaving us behind.
Am I the only one who’s going to look back at its open door, imagine what the breeze felt like from the stool behind the cash register, and wish that we were actually almost at the edge of one postcard in a single file of tens of thousands?
If you’re not feeling that kind of thing, it’s okay. We’re probably going to have to grow up in different ways.