I came to a small town. Unconsciously, I suppose, to go back to a time when I was still little and never having been really in love. Not comfortable with that lifelong worship of gaining wealth. It being ironic now that be cast as a shopkeeper tasked with the duty to assess current value? To face the demands of representing wisdom through some innate sense of judgment that others depend on. My true bosses all turning out to be women! Those daily obsessed with their own physical attractiveness over love for the sake of exercising power. A deadly combination for those males turned ‘old’ to spend too much time in contemplation of! Or look back to fondly of in reviewing the passing of ancient circumstance. Hard to realize one’s self living in a time when love has turned into terminal cancers. A deep fear of accidentally falling into some unadvised sentiments that might cause inconvenience to one and all. Better to fall silent and pretend indifference to keep good commerce going. How like this errant modern world! To choose playing it safe rather than risk the eddies of an insecure hope of love?
The merchant caught in the tradition of the trick for treat of posing inopportune questions. The listener hopefully drawn into matters that do not concern them. To become captive to agreeable conclusions that focus the self-service guilt of the speaker and party to witnessing unspecified crimes that most likely never occurred. All parties from that point on under a universal cloud of guilt for transgressing into specious candor. This is where one is likely to end up when long held dreams evaporate into air. Come from an inadvertent source of one’s beginning. Caught up in an approaching dusk. Perpetual sadness gone to past solitude down a forsworn pasts. Novel concepts frosted over to reliably comfortable ways. A disguise for the sorts of roles one would come to expect. but at a distance. Always at a distance, always so.
Is a lace ridden face being a visage derived from the past. A corpse revived to come to claim its due from those that dare to live on. A star crossed fate held long in abeyance. A newly fashioned enchantment that threatens to overcome all past expectations in direct conflict with old sad songs. One picks up these contradictions in a refrain from the avoidance of changing old habits. The price of happiness in this regard is at odds with the earth and all its natural forces. A solemnity of advancing age leaking from an exhausted reservoir of youth. Signs of these tiresome repetitions buried in past fancies. Shadows of weathered clap board ‘Bobby Soxed’ ankles too far out of fashion. Incompatibility with all the rhythms of life. How after all, could all this be in the face of any rational conversation? The ether cannot support the ideas or the presupposed theories of the Science of man that purports to know.