A fire truck blazed by before, creeping around that corner yet the wail mauled my ears, speeding up as it rounded the idiots who are more important than the fire these souls are trying to get to.
People in the laundromat. Quarters dumping bum-da-chinging from one machine and being plunked into another across from it. They never leave here. Are merely tossed over the linoleum sea, doing the bidding of another. Never their own master.
A thought then, is it money that we use or are we the marionettes dancing our strings to the tune of change and dollars?
My laundry is done.