Today he saved two bucks by not taking the bus back home.
Passing over frozen dog shit in the snow,
making his way along as the early rush-hour traffic passed,
He began to despise himself, now more than not too long ago.
Blame it on the place, the people, the times, blame it on yourself;
surviving is the reality that TV never comes to meet.
Hosts and guests, cast and advertisers, all prostitute.
Don’t pretend you’re better or above; you’ve been there, you should know.
The escalator stairs, loaded with excess body mass, struggle up to the platform of this faceless tram stop.
The shabby capital bus, overheated, old and loud, is mostly on time.
Shifting along with the crowd, job or no job, another meaningless day.
Send an e-mail, call them, pass-by, wait, send signals, he does it all, while refusing to fall from so many blows.