I continuously lean onto people on public transit, their eyes constantly racing; dragging across trees and cement and billboards and empty bottles. I catch fragments in their pupils. They lick their lips at the thought of the last wine drop drying in the bottom of a dislocated bottle, lodged between a bus stop and an abandon parking lot, silently self-hating themselves for never being able to obtain the crispness of the billboard people. A deep dissatisfaction flutters with their eyelashes and if I could see things through their eyes I think I would be unhappier than I already am. Strange times and odd disguises for what we all call worth. An assumed tragedy to one is nothing but a paper cut to another. Swallowing empty feelings and waiting to approach your stop you can't help but find home in their eyes. The images of their futures happening in milliseconds in swift paintbrush strokes, you can't help but want to tell them their fortune. That they will get off this bus and something will happen. Something always happens.
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