In the cold wind we feel vulnerable. The chilling air carries the plum emerging from a chimney across the horizon. Memories get lost, an old sign whispers under a coat of moss, a broken bench tells the passers by that everything is temporary.
Again, scale is a token of illusion, digest tomorrow's dreams like an expectation that will never come.

I remember places that I've never seen, aged in no time but now I'm walking down the rails into a wasteland, unused, sleepy, green and moist. Some birds made their home there, they seem surprised to see a figure that does not belong here.

Road workers drill along road markings like cutting paper, fold back the tarmac, dig out what's beyond, reach the arteries of the city, break into them, extract them, replace them with new yellow plastic bypasses. Then the holes are filled like drilled out teeth.