Standing there muttering on the phone, mattering as if you do, buses rattling and squealing, drills and picks demolishing and constructing who knows what. The din! Dusty umbrellas line the market lanes where granny shuffles past scraping her feet- not really meaning to be here. Frowning mothers drag their skipping, dancing daughters to lessons on how to do this, this which will no longer apply.
insistent announcements, overly loud but no one listening- another scarcely profitable sale. So many here do not belong to this place the trees landed blind like everyone else forlorn, twisted, stained, exhausted while their roots crack again the pavement.