Bobs in own's keg of brine. Here a regret, there a lost love, a piece
of pride chewed on, unraveling string of childhood self, a life of
kites and bicycles, like mirror shards, a broken top, favourite gum,
page torn off a book, yellowing letters, all pickled bits, cast away
one memory at a time.
A packed room, chink of ice to crystal, only the finest trend in the
luxe will do, all deep words and hollow eyes, darting slow and
cursive, a shadow in the now, yes it gets as interesting, as a fly on
a sugar cube, or an empty subway with its twinkling lights at
midnight.
Oh the allure, swagger, free association, entices as much as an onion
shell, whirling to the breeze. Human pickle, bottled in your skin, you
are stacked on shelves by the dozens.
A relic maybe. Prized? A matter of opinion. Vintage? There're better
specimens in museums of the world.
