1. Flowing. 

You are a pedestrian: you are in enforced imprisonment. This is the phantom you are plagued by. You hear whispers and shouts permeated around the sidewalk that you try to float by in loose motions; sometimes songs bubbled under skin, common sense suggests this resonated in privacy. Like say some kind-a cosmos protocol buzzes in your ears, the imperfect servitude as rebellion; almost as like if Van Gogh had not amputated himself, resided inasmuch another census nixed on the sidewalk strip in our forward ascents through contemporary society. The varying critical thought from your heart’s expectations divides you from all that amble this opulent and sad boulevard. 

Seemingly, to the artist, this strikes society into pieces. To take the purple colours further, at the artist’s risk (/you have an ear) it is kin to consider a stonemason exhibition glanced up from secret reflections on this sidewalk, the erected pop-up stall gathers crowds without care or punctilious explanation as to why. So, where this public strolls onto the scene, with their variety—our-what-the-artist-here—you—considers, our baffling primate species, are expected to chip out truth and beauty, all those who try find peace amidst this show—congregated in fantastic temper. The utmost of your disgust turns you away. 

This is because The Country Club is infected by plastic silhouettes. The social climate pooled in by artificially enhanced profiles—our famous regimes (like social media timelines climb out of the phone in thin veneers) (the media on TV and all, with shaky footing beside this in upper-generations’ swain) — (without even mention to the mal-formative early years laced in that earthly corner you abide like salt in the earth)—that you, which seeks citizenry and authenticity, all of mere serene in the natural order, are in the nexus of modern life. 

You, who wants meaning in what has been referred to as absurdity. Considers oneself intellectually privy to such horsefoolery, sure. Denies conformity with cuteness—some provocative caricature. You see the phonetics in the phrase human pulchritude.

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