Half Life
A life folds into a shoebox into a storage into a warehouse.
A warehouse folds into a squat into a cinema into a brewery.
A brewery folds into a studio into a start-up and then a brewery again,
which folds into a gallery into a hotel into a condo.
A condo multiplies with velocity into a highrise at half the time we were expecting.
The tram tracks have reached the neighborhood at twice the time we were expecting.
Back on the ground, a florist folds into a vape store into another start-up. And then a bar.
In the bar Kenny sings about how to fold 鈥榚m. Ironically though.
A corner store folds into a cafe into a co-working space into a children鈥檚 boutique,
and then unfolds back into a corner store. That鈥檚 trust.
A finger rolls the final cigarette paper over.
A police station opens in the lobby. And then a prison.
A laundromat folds into a tailor into a dry-cleaner into another laundromat. It鈥檚 the district for that.
A matchbook folds upon a phone number, into a pocket, which folds into a lifestyle.
Handkerchiefs once folded, body parts too. There鈥檚 an app for that now,
so laundromats return to strictly washing clothes again. Quite cleanly.
A lover folds the trousers of another lover, sadly.
But back to the shoebox:
two more blondes move into my building; my favorite neighbor folds.
I fold myself into a crevice between economy class and the toilets, having found a spot for the artworks to journey. I return to my seat and fold the safety buckle over. A traveling grandmother folds her hands on her lap and puts her head upon my shoulder. We share sweets. We share codes. We can鈥檛 speak. We fold into one another; we take each other into the fold.
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A life folds into a shoebox into a storage into a warehouse.
A warehouse folds into a squat into a cinema into a brewery.
A brewery folds into a studio into a start-up and then a brewery again,
which folds into a gallery into a hotel into a condo.
A condo multiplies with velocity into a highrise at half the time we were expecting.
The tram tracks have reached the neighborhood at twice the time we were expecting.
Back on the ground, a florist folds into a vape store into another start-up. And then a bar.
In the bar Kenny sings about how to fold 鈥榚m. Ironically though.
A corner store folds into a cafe into a co-working space into a children鈥檚 boutique,
and then unfolds back into a corner store. That鈥檚 trust.
A finger rolls the final cigarette paper over.
A police station opens in the lobby. And then a prison.
A laundromat folds into a tailor into a dry-cleaner into another laundromat. It鈥檚 the district for that.
A matchbook folds upon a phone number, into a pocket, which folds into a lifestyle.
Handkerchiefs once folded, body parts too. There鈥檚 an app for that now,
so laundromats return to strictly washing clothes again. Quite cleanly.
A lover folds the trousers of another lover, sadly.
But back to the shoebox:
two more blondes move into my building; my favorite neighbor folds.
I fold myself into a crevice between economy class and the toilets, having found a spot for the artworks to journey. I return to my seat and fold the safety buckle over. A traveling grandmother folds her hands on her lap and puts her head upon my shoulder. We share sweets. We share codes. We can鈥檛 speak. We fold into one another; we take each other into the fold.
