From my sky-rise apartment everyone looks like ants. All of the people dance around on the street like marionettes with strings pulled taut. Stiff little people exist like puppets, drawn to the rotting buildings.
And each building is the same as the next one. They file into them in droves with their suitcases. A bit of rain catches in the clouds and falls. Then the gremlins put up their umbrellas, all the same color. It’s as dull and drab as the floors they enter. Even my window is the same.
The opaqueness is only visible from the outside, and the other studios appear the same. No puppet from below is able to see this puppet above, looking down on them. It’s all lacking in vitality. The color drains from this city atmosphere. The personality is obscured by the same blocks that build the foundation.
However, one building stands out among this colorless world. A small food chain nestles in between two buildings. It sticks out like a sore thumb, even the writing is not in English, but when I go there I order from the menu. Words that I can hardly pronounce are written on pages.
The server comes to my table and brings me dinner, or I order it, and the food is brought to me from the elevators.
It can be said that in this world lacking in personality, food had brought a ray of light. And the puppets must eat it. They are drawn to it like moths to a flame.
That’s why if I had to choose, I would choose the cult of food. I’d get sucked into those brilliant rays and tear down an entire complex.
