the wrath entangled in caustic rose, cherry scented deep disgust unfurling in the tobacco repulsion of lemon flavored taxi fragrances; dad's insipid wrath jacketed in green military, stock numbers breathing to the economic soft spots of soulless men as the metro breathes on; everyone develops a deep distaste for himself and each other. we live in a city of disgust, anger, disappointment, isolation; at some point in human history the currency we invented became the religion that forces us to kneel upon and present our daily sacrifices to the artificial superhuman which in some mysterious force of incomprehension has swallowed us with its continuous sine waves of overwhelming edges so you either open up your palms to receive the wounds like a voluntary scapegoat or you don the headpiece armor called a paper bag and charge forth with the darkness behind, in front, around you on every possible infinite side; and everywhere the human charges forth is a barricade of contemptuous, rootless anger; the foreign immigrants, each drowning in his own confusion, dream of the scenes in hollywood films only to find himself shivering under a tweed blanket three stories down decrepit buildings on the remote outskirts of an 'american' town with two dimes in the pocket of a lost jacket.

why are the museums deserted while millions fight for a glimpse of the Xihu river escaping from its own contamination? is it so amusing to watch the destruction of oneself?
or perhaps it is the lack of personal connection to wander the sterile walls of the brand new galleries; what is an abstract painting but chaos presented in visual form. what is a chinese painting but just another rearrangement of ink and paper that will not change one's life? how could it possibly?

and so the tourists march on, looking about but not really seeing. purchasing postcards featuring photographs of the tour site, the photograph, photoshopped beyond recognition, the lake glows in chlorine azure blue; yet the artificial tones have become the palette of the modern universe. what is dirt? what is the grass? whitman would watch in wonder, in whirling wrath, wandering with the whitewashed whispers of wildmen seeking an exit out of the underground.