Gravity, sausages, and 9 to 5

The city has weak gravity – people attracted to the crescent moon shine of a landscape growing and changing like a woodland of cut glass and car fumes. Choke. There’s a bloke with an umbrella crossing the street – look both ways – he choked down the promise that being surrounded by people would make one less lonely and now he’s stuck in a pricey box getting busy busy busy. And oh the mountains are so far away and don’t ya know that you can’t replace a lake with a glass of whiskey? Give me a summer breeze singing through the leaves and I’ll give you 9 to 5 in an office in a suit and tie but ties are just dead tongues lolling beneath our neck and sausages are the rotting flesh of cows squeezed into shape and I guess that’s what conversation feels like in a city that doesn’t sleep. Doesn’t rest. Low gravity. Low sanity.