B u r d e n

I walk alone and halfheartedly stroke my smart phone. The street is lined with identical white glass galleries and dirty snow. Manhattan is a playground for the wealthy and a barracks for their friends and employees.

I wait in line to watch The Clock, a film studies project disguised as a work of art.  The disguise takes the shape of: a vast screening room, the crisp stencil of the artist’s name on the white wall, a line down the block, dozens of great black sofas and darkness.

People love sitting on a couch flipping channels. There will be no revolution here; just a new cable TV provider.

B u b b l e . . .