We set out with big ideas of how to change the world, but our bedsheets had gone months without being washed. Dishes piled besides sinks, an inviting destination for the weary house-fly. The ideas changed when put into words and cried out. Not so much about everyone anymore. Not against a common enemy.
We found we couldn’t find one. Only shifting concepts, eight-faced identities where no one could reach a consensus on their expressions. Anger or disappointment, tolerance or indifference. The ring around the tub thickened, grew something like barnacles.
We sat on the tub’s edge, worried about the rent.