north american suburbs are similar in their superficial attempt to mimic the neighbourhoods of our past, all lanes and lawns and sipping lemonade on the porch swing. almost perfect, except wait, there's nobody there. no children playing, no neighbours leaning over the fence to exchange tips for dealing with an overabundance of apples or zucchini, no human voices at all, in fact. the empty almost-sweetness of nutrasweet, fooling nobody except those who wish to be fooled.
i will work on embracing the end-of-days aspect of sundays and autumn, because they, in the fullness of time, will become new days and seasons. i refuse to join the suburbs, there is no life in them. i may have a hard time dealing with the circular path of life, the need for death to bring forth new life, but i am working on it. nobody can convince me that in the fullness of time the suburbs will ever become anything other than a burial ground of consumerist illusions.