it starts with power tool noise on a weekend morning. they should be made illegal, along with hammers, moving furniture and encouraging your child to practise his drums every day, although the kid obviously has no rhythm. so you leave the building, gasping for fresh air and silence. but the air smells awful and the streets roar with engines, horns and faulty old chassis. some individual is braking his windows, another has something to say that surely is unsuited to his inside voice.
“headphones!”, you realize. “headphones ought to do it. and a flat next to the park.”
you reach the first store and the heat drives you in. you are greeted by a/c, neon lighting, shelves and shelves of colorful plastic wraps, ingenious packing under which entire worlds must be hiding, not candy and stuff. you reach for a light coke, you ask for light cigarettes and that light label makes everything better. it releases some of the guilt that comes with consciously harming yourself. Continue reading my bleeding city