Lately it’s been getting worse. Or, I’ve been getting worse: I’ll be the first to admit it’s a problem of perception, even of projection. But lately, the city has become one wide tissue of visual horror.
Each time I look up from under the brim of my hat, grotesque flashes: a woman chewing with her mouth open; a man picking his nose in the street; a girl’s wanton gait under a polyester sheath; fake handbags – a whole city of them, tediously and meticulously hideous; the glint of polyester in a man’s suit jacket – a glow, illuminated across the stretch of the fabric; a street of drivers unmoving in traffic, with their mouths open.
And always, the synergized horror of the sonoric landscape – like a sea, a tepid bath of someone else’s used water.