You will not steal my sight lines.
Adverts divulge to me their constructed images and deconstructed bodies, so gaunt that after all has been bought and ingested (by the) manufactured consumers are left hungry. Plastic regurgitations. Perpetually unsated. Purgatory without the beauty of ritual, without the nuance of contrast. Another way another angle another need another must another way to trust my desire is for the tree behind your signage. A vertical tower of melting hues gray green brown now streaming upward from the soil even in this city roots search and find and entice buried nutrients to make the pilgrimage to tree tops. Even on this December day leaves cling clasp to, caress the twigs and they flash midday light my way as the surface of water does. My eyes receive the refractions leaping toward me.
Warmth on my skin.
I want nothing.