Altars

Stuffing everything you can into a
suitcase. Leaving all the motor mouthed
spectators in their seats with the lights down,
expecting more after the intermission, only
to be disappointed. So much of the writing
on the walls is about making us forget
whose life we’re actually in. Like curved mirrors
they distort what could be plainly seen without the
absolute worship of the eyes.
Cars that stutter every time the key is turned are
prayed over more than alters. Charity is a chance
that takes courage and a lack of obsession with
being the best all the time. Dozens of people
wearing necklaces that glow when you snap them
skate laps around a circular rink while music from
decades ago makes them imagine what it must have
been like to be their parents when they were young.
The streets are full of pedestrians all walking to the
same place. A field with a clear view of the sky, where
they can sit on blankets, and watch the explosions
illuminate the faces of the strangers around them.

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