The dark building scowls at the street, its face scarred by scaffolding. The names by each mailbox are peeling off like scabs.
I'm tired of the expression "politically correct." It's become a knee-jerk criticism, a shortcut in thought.
Half of the fence has collapsed towards the house, the other half towards the lawn. An evergreen shrub has thrust itself into the gap.
A broken umbrella tumbles between the cars, tickling them as it goes.
Another expression I'm tired of - more than tired of, I'd like to pulverize it with my fists - is "good intentions." It's an excuse, a deflection, a pat on the back. A false innocence, a willful ignorance.
Some people show you a love like the horizon. It'll be yours, they say, if you keep struggling towards it, on land, by sea, with everything in you. One day you'll have their love. Just make an effort. A real effort. Break yourself on the dream of it.
Behind a restaurant, a waiter puts out his cigarette and break dances. Pigeons rocket away.