Saturday commute vii

In tearing haste, many observe protocols of modern correspondence which indenture them to missives whose signature is the new defeat of intimacy, with chirps of avian redundancy. People text each other between lappings of lunch, and wouldn't think of migrating so far as from the dressing room to the shower without documenting the trek to their Favourites list. Has any generation faster imploded its wits on a frenzy, since the extinction of goldfish? I love my friends. I don't imagine they love me metabolically. The mark of human intimacy is what Thoreau said it is, a limit. Fide-ra-la-la.




Die Vogelhochzeit
Traditional
San Francisco Chanticleer
Teldec, 1997©