at the rally the city stops to listen for a pulse. the cameras watch a mass of mammals mourn the loss of human conscience. cardboard prophecies and faces of children lost to ash or rubble. mantras to keep the faith and abstain from checking our phones. the voice of history calls for the fall of Rome to reckon with the scales of justice. headlines call to burn the witch tomorrow. trudging tram lines under flags a retiree lectures empty spirits on collective freedom and responsibility. he asks me why the masses can't mobilise well enough to make change or actions that matter. I blame apathy and the mirror. 'we can't get over ourselves', etc. he insists we're better than that. I envy his remaining faith.
time turns beyond every breath. every breath is only ever just enough for now. the days last longer and I envy another hemisphere slipping slowly into cold. the billboard says the reward for running is more running. I can't tell if they're selling shoes or Sisyphus.
time turns beyond the end of days. in the dark I hear her laughing at tomorrow's mushroom cloud. I crawl through the dark and claw for popcorn left behind. she's staying for the credits. I hope they finish soon.
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