The first day of this new year is almost at an end. I hear 30,000 kg of rubbish was collected at the party to celebrate this crossing. This new year, itself a construct within a construct. A register of lines around a rubberised band, a box to make it a thing. We don’t seem to like open endings.
Now, sitting in the middle of a disused fountain, observing the world, I smell the waft of unhealthy cooking. I hear children, the construct of men, playing wildly, calling for their parents, screaming. Dead ahead, an arch, a circle and beyond that, another arc and next to it, sits, of all things, a stone octopus. Eight legs standing the test of time; a singular piece of ill-fitting construction that hasn’t had to evolve in order to survive this cruel world. I’m sure it made some sense then, as each of these arcs did when they were made, one in front of the other. We really liked circles way back when. Now they look like disparate stonehenges mashed together, all but forgotten by the throngs that saunter by on their way to dinner. A thing isn’t beautiful because it lasts. I think i might die here. I might live.