STREET VENDORS (AND OTHER SUBURB DELIGHTS)
For sale: endings. I have them in all colors: worn, souring, completely wrong. Prejudiced, consistent, decisive. For sale: endings, one by one, and they are sold in a cared Luxury Edition, enclosed in freezer bags and decorated with a red satin ribbon (blood red, for those who doubt about it).
For sale: endings for desperated people, for old flames, for old smiles. For those who never knew to say goodbye, and for the flirty ones with vacuous look. Endings made of false ink, that one reappearing throughout the years. Endings for those who don’t like the endings, for those who have seen too many station kisses, for those who don’t want to run anymore. For those who flee and seek finding themselves.
For sale: clever, clumsy, painful endings. Endings that will persecute your whole life, endings that you don’t know why they arrived, endings that will make you cry when you see them. All of them soft, or steep, or irritating to skin and pupils. To hair. Endings that will eat you nails, endings that remove you the laughter. Endings that aren’t really endings, but things left incomplete. Unexplained endings. Hurting endings. Endings of the own error.
Finally, I have the one euro endings section, those that you don’t mind to carry. They are sold in a gift paper pack; some of them even rolled up in kebap paper (understand it, it’s just an euro…). All handmade by fingers and thumbs. And ladies and gentlemen, here I put my stand, because the weight of all these endings doesn’n let me advance anymore.