It is not within the shelves of bright unobtainable "things" in the department stores; it is not within the rows upon rows of identical, suburbian homes that litter the outskirts of cities; it is not within the confides of acoustic false walls and smells from recycled air and printer inks; it is not within the congestion, negativity, and false hope that we call traffic; it is not within; it is not within the churches where old women sing hymns to the exposed rafters and depictions of a false god and his son within the stained glass; and, it is not within saturated corn syrups, adolescent bimbos, or television sitcoms with cliché principles.
Mine is where the beggar sits Indian style and collects his whereabouts in the hot morning sun; mine is where children fantasize about sailing ships upon the seas of grass in parks on weekday afternoons; mine is where the tattered prostitute leans against a light post and cleans underneath her fingernails with a jack knife; mine is where the flop hat farmer digs his spade into the untilled soil and releases the organic smells of earth; mine is where smoke rises to the tops of dark backrooms and stings the eyes of shiny-haired card players; and, mine is where cats tiptoe through damp flowers, where long legged girls rest against red velvet wallpapered foyers, where music is, and where a potbelly stove is the focal point.
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