An alien model stares out at me from a bus stop billboard that houses the homes of spiders and bears the spray painted marks of teenage inebriation.
An apathetic youth uses a calculator to determine whether I am of age to give myself lung cancer.
The alley beside my house is a-clutter with the [frantic/apathetic/furtive] disposal synonymous with bins night.
Along the street windows are eradicated for teenage delinquency; cigarettes flutter through careless, ageless acts of littering.
Glaring signs preempt and prohibit every move we hover on the brink of, until we are left to lament and resent the very nature of our existence, and to be content is a concept only to be found in and exploited by infomercials.
Our say in who we are disappears, forfeited to commercials that dictate every facet of the ideal ideology; and the notion of happiness [ephemeral] is only fulfilled by the arrival of the latest department store clearance sale, self-actualisation only realised by committing to the latest tabloid witch-burning.
Perhaps we have become casualties of life's car crash; the fatalities of internal and external suppression, and exist only in tomorrow as ghosts of today.
By Zoo.
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