Talking about parades and processions and cheese and crackers and crowds eating healthy snacks, and children wanting new toys and parents wanting little Tommy's clothes to last a little longer, remain clean a little longer, this is heard, this is felt. There is hope. There is death. There is music. There is fear processing into the conversation, into the imagination hidden within thoughts of eating right, calorie count, freshness. How attractive things do look, how appealing things often are. There is interest. There is want, there is need.
The dead watch from rooftops and street corners with a delicious interest in what they hear and see when they observe you and me.
Sigh and sink down in groups of chattering, polished teeth talking of celebrities, talking of politics, searching for something to believe, searching for something to hold on to.
Finding momentary interest in the mystery of a stranger, in the mystery of a chocolate covered strawberry on a random street corner.
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