Coming out of the last
film screening, the empty
mall looks like an abandoned
cruise ship. There's the lingering
sense of brief occupancy, in the
same way plastic toys are lodged
in the sandbox after parents
have fetched their children.
The shops are dim, empty.
They're on break now, preparing
for next morning's
language of want.
Glass doors are locked.
Objects, once for sale,
are inacquirable. Price tags
are sheltered in the quiet
specter of dark.
How I do leave this.
Where is the exit.
I need a way out.
Is there anybody out there.
Someone to guide me.
Look around. Some few hover.
There are people still here.
A man at the snack bar
closing up shop.
Laborers downstairs, fixing
tiled floors.
The guards. And their
transceivers humming gargled
whispers. And me, a spectator
of the way things are after
everyone's gone. I am built
like this, I think. The after
hours, the empty. These feel
holy to anyone who wanders
around vacancies. Hoping to
discover a place inside the place.
A field trip during midnight when
loneliness doesn't have anyone it
can flirt with, so it eats its own
body and desires itself.
In all this emptiness, I look
for something small. A human,
seeing me, sensing I'm lost,
and coaxing me toward a
narrow exit and out into the
open world, where I'm even
smaller than before. Outside,
I think of inside. The massiveness.
And the people still in it,
bracing themselves for another
12 hours
of this tomorrow.
Dec 19, 2019
Dec 19, 2019 at 6:08 AM UTC
Coming out of the last
film screening, the empty
mall looks like an abandoned
cruise ship. There's the lingering
sense of brief occupancy, in the
same way plastic toys are lodged
in the sandbox after parents
have fetched their children.
The shops are dim, empty.
They're on break now, preparing
for next morning's
language of want.
Glass doors are locked.
Objects, once for sale,
are inacquirable. Price tags
are sheltered in the quiet
specter of dark.
How I do leave this.
Where is the exit.
I need a way out.
Is there anybody out there.
Someone to guide me.
Look around. Some few hover.
There are people still here.
A man at the snack bar
closing up shop.
Laborers downstairs, fixing
tiled floors.
The guards. And their
transceivers humming gargled
whispers. And me, a spectator
of the way things are after
everyone's gone. I am built
like this, I think. The after
hours, the empty. These feel
holy to anyone who wanders
around vacancies. Hoping to
discover a place inside the place.
A field trip during midnight when
loneliness doesn't have anyone it
can flirt with, so it eats its own
body and desires itself.
In all this emptiness, I look
for something small. A human,
seeing me, sensing I'm lost,
and coaxing me toward a
narrow exit and out into the
open world, where I'm even
smaller than before. Outside,
I think of inside. The massiveness.
And the people still in it,
bracing themselves for another
12 hours
of this tomorrow.
after Knives Out, Robinson's Magnolia
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