We, pedestrians, gaze with morbid fascination at the ripped-open streets,
sewers and catacombs exposed,
burst pipes and city sinews stitched back together.
A place like this was
built on mass casualties.

Each day we walk right above thousands, 
their fingertips scratching towards the soles of our shoes.

Kobayashi Issa wrote: 

                In this world
                we walk on the roof of hell,
                gazing at flowers.

The roof party is bound to end at some point
and we’ll descend as well. 
Maybe not to hell, but 
unlikely to ever be unearthed.

Yesterday i made rice and black beans for dinner,
added spices,
sat by the window to finish a book. 
I’m anyone, stretching back hundreds of years. 

We, echoes,
buy flowers for ghosts
the last people with big dreams. 
No matter where they rest
they reach up—remind us who we are,
they shout: 

THE FUTURE STILL EXISTS
AND YOU ARE TIME-TRAVELLING

DON’T LET ANYONE TELL YOU
THIS IS THE BORING ROUTE

THE FUTURE IS A PRIVILEGE
THE FUTURE IS NOT GONE YET!