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| lines:� once heard of bread there brother up at end, the deal was new, the dole, when buildings crashed and shook out souls, evicted.� the more people lined the more the myth of something waiting for up there, we wait in slower moving snakes through side-streets, squares, shade from stores with bars on windows.� in front it extends so many heads of hat angles, shoes, unraveling coats, diminishing off in dirty fog, their end is only theory, like infinite numbers.� kept there by thought of losing one's place, wouldn't that mean the time was wasted?� Years have passed, whole lives in line, children born and old men died, their bodies dropped down sewers on the way, waiting in a line never left, it's all they knew.� In front and behind are your life's companions, you will marry, love, or murder.� Stories exist of dropping back three, four, places to be with a sweetheart, but this is romantic nonsense.� Their religion is one of end of line, all eschatology and angels, but heretics and skeptics say, some cosmic joke, the end of the line has met and merged with the beginning, and they wait and walk in circles. | ||