CXII.

"Every car looks the same when all that can you see are their headlights." David sat one step below myself, he continued to turn the broken pieces of wood over in his hands. I watched as the traffic signals continued to cycle, like the seasons passing. The statue of a man and a young girl cut out in bronze was positioned to my right. They, unlike the seasons, unlike anything in this life, hardly ever change save the weathering of their souls. If this is art, provided that you can even call it that, what comes after postmodernism anyway? Nothing, I would gauge. We are at the end of an era that was dead before it started. From what I've heard I was created from dirt, and one of these days I imagine I'll return to it.