We own nothing. Spend big, pay later. Tied to a desk, tied to an alarm call, tied to rope, weighted down and sinking.
The water is murky. The gloom is Stygian. The buildings loom but the reflections are dulled, great hulks over black oil.
Boarded windows. Bricked up doors. A blank slate. What do you want?
It seems I cannot dream of flying anymore. Each morning I wake from dreams which are unedifying. Dreams of petty squabbling, dreams of jealous failings or abject mundanity.
I want to dream of flying or not at all.