But all is not lost: I would mock you, good form (or superstition) be damned. I would rent a sky banner and fly it all day outside my many windows (windows you would blacken; smear dry ugly soot in such shapes as to cause utter complete dismay, failure, sleep),
But all has not left: I would love you (the dances the grinding the compression) like the scar across my chest: the wound the reminder the exhortation the debt that must be paid because the Great Usurer must always be paid and on time. I will fly outside my windows my many windows. One day soon you will see. Our dance then complete.
I walked among you yesterday and did nothing more than notice: your sacks and carts and bedding, your defeated posture. And that I did not detour or divert my eyes makes me more than the many? I suppose. But what I should tell you is that I have been closer to your bench than you might imagine and I have worn your clothes and your look. So long ago it seems now. Another lifetime or someone else's life? What is indisputable: I was at least as human then as now, likely more. So bless you and rest well.