IT'S REALLY THAT SCREWED UP

54. IT'S REALLY THAT SCREWED UP:

And then one day I simply decided I'd had enough and walked away - away from all the preening and pretension of being somewhere other than where I really was - realizing the city was no more what it once was and that the ones still there had segmented and broken apart into fragmented loops of wealth of poverty assistance or struggle comfort or hurt and in every window where I looked there was nothing being sold but some stupid frivolity which referred to nothing and I found myself unable to speak and no one to speak to : lining up for endless pizza slices wasn't the key nor were the old museum entrances or cafes of university courtyards - everything was being closed off with ID cards and guards and passage and the same people therein were the same people I could meet anywhere else and I knew just knew I had to broaden my horizons or risk a life lived amongst the weak and the failing - endless Columbians Mexicans Pakis and Indian subcontinent types had infiltrated the fabric and done so without any recourse to the past or the heritage of that which all once was and to which I was still connected and everywhere around me (as the century turned as the whole world winced) was speaking a dialect I could no longer understand and no one it seemed (suddenly) knew anything 'if I say Sartre they think I've meant Satire and simply spelled it wrong if I write irony they think I mean the quality of hard steel' - it's really that screwed up - and I've spoken to a million but loved only one and I've nodded to the crowd around me but only picked out special eyes : there are nitwits in the rafters there are doubters at the church and nothing REALLY matters (all over again) and EVERYTHING'S been left - as it were - in the lurch.