The city has no direction.

Even the streets take you nowhere.

 

Sprawling. Stopping. Rethinking, recovering. 

A destination as much as a distinction, home

to so many. Honoured by so few.

 

Only a place, only for a while, only to those 

who wish to be somewhere else.

 

Identity. Community. Immunity for some.

Isolation within a population, advancing beyond

the imagination of so many.

 

To be a stranger is to remain present.

Loneliness. There is always a place.

 

This search for significance takes us

to inappropriate places: this city is full of them.

Each street. Every building.

 

The homes we pass by, the contents of which 

we do not know; or understand. Only structures.

 

Will we find such a place where personal information 

remains private property? Is it natural 

or even possible?

 

Overlooking common sense, stigma, and the 

interpretation of others, can we arrive at a place where 

data does not exist?

 

How, then, will we document our days?

Who will keep track of our shortcomings?

 

 

© 2024 j.g. lewis