There are small and dirty scraps of paper all about. Some of them have writing on them, some of them are pages of formal type which loses its significance hourly through the half-life-like decay of jobs that are no longer worked. If those pages were dollars if would not be so interesting, and I would not be so hungry. There would of course be fewer of them, and they would not be so carelessly strewn about. They would be hidden away for their shame, for their own repugnance. They ugly ink mingled with the oils of palms, a medium for transferring the infection onto the skin and into the blood, eventually the heart, and once there...
Still, there is the realization and the recognition that this care, even in rejection, is not extended to those strips of paper which contain the light of my own self, which at times pulses in the darkness and rouses me from sleep's pathetic call like a beacon which needs to be stoked. Even as I crash and rage against my own dying light I charge ahead so blindly I often pass by places which deserve more careful consideration and nurturing affection and which could become, with time, perhaps the streets of city worth walking, perhaps a grey haven for a ship.
Still, there is the realization and the recognition that this care, even in rejection, is not extended to those strips of paper which contain the light of my own self, which at times pulses in the darkness and rouses me from sleep's pathetic call like a beacon which needs to be stoked. Even as I crash and rage against my own dying light I charge ahead so blindly I often pass by places which deserve more careful consideration and nurturing affection and which could become, with time, perhaps the streets of city worth walking, perhaps a grey haven for a ship.