Revolutionary Road

The only night time sounds come from the road named after some famous lawyer. Drivers pretending to be invincible, cruse in and out of earshot. Meanwhile the General convenience store sits opposite the fast food joint, both staring at each other in loathing competition. The parking lot which separates the two looks like a stage, illuminated from the bright street lamps overhead. I sit here on my tinny balcony watching, waiting for performers to dart from the sides with hats and cookie cutter smiles, singing a generic tune that will stir up that deep-seated desire to want. And there they come, like lost souls. Slowly. They emerge from the sides. Some meander in and out of consciousness, while others in and out of the garbage disposals. Some walk up and down the front street, aimless, empty. Slowly. Time has no say and neither does anyone else about what you do or how you should live your life. Bang! Exclaims the furious sedan in disapproval. And the crescent-shaped moon smiles down on our performance, wondering what strange dissatisfied creatures we are.