A small town with stretches and stretches of concrete. Shiny cars parked in the sun in clean parking lots with not a soul in sight. Plazas with huge edifices of departmental stores and chain restaurants displaying happy signs with overly happy mascots dozing in the sun with no one to see.
Tree lined roads with large mansions on either side which look like most rooms in them have never really been occupied. High fences guarding lives that are not there inside for most of the year.
Perhaps there are nuances here, stories that I am unable to catch. Signs of life that escape me.
Huge skyscrapers with tinted glass walls. Squeaky clean reception areas with women with painted faces and plastic smiles. Men and women in black suits and identical expressions on their faces that make them all look alike. They are always going somewhere. Guarded people with guarded lives. Their stories are not ones I can read. So their stoires are ones that I cannot write.
Stretches and stretches of tarpaulin covered spaces that are homes for multiple men, women and children huddled together. Tin pots and pans and crying children sitting outside. Voices shouting to each other and people visible through imperfectly hung rag curtains sitting on the floor apparently doing nothing of great consequence to the world.
Lives on display to the passers by.
Nuances that are easily visible. People that seem easy to read. Stories that seem easy to tell.
Signs of life that seem so easy to interpret and display with authority. Lives that fall a victim to the pen.
bottledworder 
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