
























I am the supermarket trolley that demands a coin to awaken. I am the temporary cradle for goods plucked from the shelves. am the accomplice in the art of the "five-finger discount." am the black-market stall in the underpass shadows. I am the banquet table for pigeons and rats alikev


As for when I shall return to my rightful place, perhaps after the Christmas holidays, when someone finally remembers I exist.

Yesterday, I sprawled across the subway entrance, bottles rolling, drunks relieving themselves without a care. Today, I lean against the wall by a trash bin, a weirdo clutching a black box, chirping away, Grumbling why I’m not sprawled out like yesterday. Damn it, What’s wrong with this world?