Window View From A Room

I stand and view from the ice sheet of glass: the concrete crossroads; the Ashphalt jungle’s beating heart and endocrine system; the symmetrical etched yellow paint; and the neon totem poles that govern the circulation of the intersection, though not that the flow is natural nor is it adhered to.
Above all, most prominent, is the eye: Orwell was right and Huxley was right and Lang was right, though the prophets were feared because they were right, I don’t fear what they feared; though it sits like an automatic head on a spike, casually prominently obtrusively eating the privacy of every uncovered/open window. However, I don’t find myself caring too much (unlike some resident revolutionary parties) as the blind closes as easily as it opens, and only the fool opens the window to a metropolitan morning naked, let alone commit a crime/fornicates(with the self or the other) with the curtains open. Still, I can appreciate the discomfort of the cosmopolitan focus of this eye of the crossroad. But people seem to forget, at least in my eyes, that the eye moonlights as a gallows (it too must have to keep up with the rent as well; this city is an expensive place to reside): and generally the wicked unwittingly, invariably, hang themselves.

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