Undertakers entrusted with the burial of vanquished life, caskets of dead ends. This is not a through street. All in which you once took comfort is now meaningless. And these words, they mean nothing, muttered at random by the homeless of the globe, in tandem, at every street corner and from cardboard mansions and beneath marble halls and between the fibers of knit blankets. Millions of lips shuffle through indistinct similarities between themselves and others, talking to ensure that voices still function. All languages are rendered immune from private thought under the shell of fractured skulls.
Organs threaten the dichotomy of the rich and the poor. Three hundred volunteer firemen heave a politician’s broken body from the wreckage of his silver Mercedes, and doctors pop the unfortunate man’s liver into a small boy. This boy had thus far lived in abandoned houses and wandered dying into a hospital, lost and addicted to heroin since conception, although his mother did try to eat organics.
He now had an important man’s liver next to a throbbing stomach, and knew his luck was about to change. The boy was far too humble to smile.
The Open Curtain