N.Y. September 11, 2001 (or the start of the 21st century)
I roll a smoke for the road, and I get the feeling that the days have turned into clusters, that the programmers are advancing, having donned masks of cold prosperity and the fear of losing everything.
This crazy world of vain striving and capital delusions was once suddenly interrupted, amid the soft warmth of autumn and leisurely preparations for Christmas. The deceptive tale of its famous twin towers turned into a graveyard, which smokes to this day. Thus began the era of using the clear sky, and the manufacturers of antidepressants made a killing.
America did not laugh for an entire week: there was shock, and memorial displays of love, and genuine sorrow. Then the infighting began: some sought the remains of their brothers, others gold bars. Various interests butted heads, and democracy went down choking, having declared war on itself. And all of this is called mere temporary difficulties, or a farewell to illusions.
There is no home; there is only the waystation and the eternal road, and ash strewn in your path.