118th Floor

Sitting at the top of the world,
Carefully sipping a blackberry brandy cocktail,
One can begin to feel somewhat morous and disillusioned.

Below us a million feet stamp
And another million collars
Darken with sweat.

Dollar signs and my eyes are spinning.
With my head literally in the clouds
I am simultaneously incredibly small
and overwhelmingly, disgustingly large.

Faces and hands form and reform in ice.
Away in the night young girls lie down for riches
and old men murmur in their sleep,
Families survive and fall along the side streets
or in small boats perched along the coast,
Eating rice by candle-light
and laughing with ignorant contentedness.

In a world filled with so much
it is easier to strive for nothing.


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