I ride through streets where history lingers, branded, sold, left in the rain?

A hand lifts, reaching—

not for bread, but for the illusion of choice?

The warmth is the capital now, a coffee clutched against the cold of a world that forgets its own hands?

What happened?

Clocks ring and not tick

Where to find the meaning?

Is it indifference or ignorance?

Postmodernism or anything else?

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