The shopper spins webs as he stumbles by the glass
A mind of fraught ideas seen from an overpass
"This neon doesn't know me, it wastes its time and energy"
He hums and dreams of an escape, and moral victory

But that which he wanted was gone, their greed had bought it all
Following the voices, to the lit up cubicle

All the rage it built in his spine, as it boiled away unsaid
Hypotheses are often, clearer in our heads