The city lives and breaths through the cycles of our awakenings and secret inhibitions, and while we are strangers to one another in our secretive belongings, we are actually identical in every which way, except one; our sight.
Our sight of perception, driven by years of worthless drilling and indoctrination, perceives all our surroundings and our very flesh to the idea of our bindings to this Earth and each other in that cruel mistress of irony; expectation.
Expectation of our future, expectation of our joys, and expectation of what we want seals us to our unhappy fate and yet we know there is more and we reach through the blindness of our hazy past to a reality that is neither permanent nor perceivable yet our only clue to the truth that is sealed behind a wall of boisterous confusion lies some where within.
Within the calamities of our insecurities and failures the little voice of doubt gnaws away at us and jabs, toys and frets upon that stage. A poor player of little significance yet constantly reaching for more while blind of sight, perceiving little, expecting much and holding everything within our player battles onward against the windmills of his imagination as we clumsily bump into each other and stumble across the city of lights.