out my window, a murder of machines flocking to pick the carcass of my Platz, Once so stoic, so patient as it caressed Junkies under the bridge and echoed the smashing of empty wine bottles across the train tracks. But she will be beautiful again, even if it is the glamour of having no soul. She will be green and carved clean, not quite St. Moritz, but full of wasted Youth spent on Fur Coats and petty trinkets for the Pride of Vanity. And pedestrians will feel safe, unchallenged and underwhelmed, while waiting for a Tram to get them to a bank or a bar drowning in the Village Youth, desperate to find a platz that will comfort them as my Platz has comforted me.
screaming at low volumes
