we step over the holes in the pavement, broken concrete and bent traffic signs, schoolgirls’ graffiti, old cars grunting weird fumes, anonymous remains of old posters forever glued to lead paint, pidgeons in the trash, anti-hobo metal teeth, granite tributes no one reads to people no one knows — the city are ruins of something unknown, debris of work in progress, holes left by the past like fossils, some sort of collective dream now as dead as the collective itself — we have our soma, our jobs and mp3 players, our bars and blogs and books, a billion ways to not think — television was the real death of religion — the city, ruins of an era when stuff was real, a giant pile of no big deal, plato’s ultimate failure.
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