29 April 2012
Air that costs too much, You pan from eye to eye trying to find the truth.
We all rush on her to take our hand, she buckles beneath us like a lame horse under a fat child. She doesn't have the voice to say, 'let's take things slow', 'one at a time', 'let me catch my breath.'
She lies broken and breaking under the weight of our carelessness and we rush, and we rush, and we rush, without thought of her fragility.
We complain, she delays, no other city would treat us this way.
A snowflake on the track breaks her back.
and She nestles under covers, taking a sick day.
London • Opuss № I