“I want to sleep in a city that never wakes up, revel in nostalgia”
I am watching where water has been to carve wrinkles in the cheeks of hillsides, a landscape that has laughed too much throughout time. Or cried.
The ants have been busy at work here.
Modernisation has sown its seeds into every corner, walking in, hand in hand with globalisation. No longer can you pick and choose your modern comforts, no longer are things we take for granted so out of reach.
Garo are traded more often than money, even when they aren’t contraband gifts.
Triple shot coffee will shock, as trays pilled high with 2 buck breakfast treats never seem to do. The grace with which they glide through the room is innate; they could never teeter.
It is the dance of the seven silver trays.
There will be a lot of new money walking around soon.
The third world marching forth.
Remaining is the extreme sport of navigating streets on foot or wheels, of winding roads to tumble from.
The street sweepers wear green and gold, a uniformed cleaning squad left cheerless.
This, this is a country built on irony.
And somehow, while moving forward we are losing the charm.