steal into conversations. Why little laughs dissolve
silences, but only momentarily. Things fall back into
an ordered, inane set-up.
It's a null set. After the green light, yellow.
Then red. A messy, predictable chaos. Even a fly
tires of its daily morsels. To the sooty, almost bitter taste
of grime, there's a sterile, neutral air.
Experiences can have polarities.
Dismal; sunny. Stale; novel.
The idea of variety must seem strange.
But it's the same can we fill with little details.
Empty universes filled with
orbiting infidels and stirred assassins.