The city is collapsing in on itself, new buildings rammed on top of the graves of people that nobody is alive to remember. Everyone is desperate, trying new personas out for size.
I'm trying to be more Black. I'm jealous of the concept of "My People". Who are my people? All fragments of ideals breaking the skin, stunned looks on our faces like we can't quite believe how things turned out.
Time sped up at some point and I'm paying for the years of tranquilizer abuse, abuse = taking ketamin until the abstract machinery dreams stop making sense then stop altogether. Nothing left but a swollen dead head and bruises where memories should be.
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