Moving has this cathartic way of telling you that you've got too much shit - and what a wonderful opportunity to simplify. You do so, you downsize and then you say, "Never again." But then consumerism takes over. It always does. This Fiction in 58 grew from that.
(Never again, I vow. I just want that new fixie bike to commute to work and that's it, I promise.)
He runs through the suburban night, air tacky with the heat of the day.
Past drape-drawn windows, where the gray-blue glow of television throbs.
Where timed sprinklers slake cut carpets of manicured green.
He hears it, footfalls like boots on wet sand. The advance, progress - $4 lattes, SUVs, stuff.
He runs, thinks he can stay well ahead.
4 hours ago