The steam fog grease smell. There used to be plenty of George Aiken's in the area. And now, there is just one. Soon, it will be gone, too. Everything worth anything scatters to the winds, leaving behind memories, sweet memories. The rollercoasters will stop rolling, the mini-golf people will shut off their blacklights and roll up their astroturf, the mystery hill will be proven to be an optical illusion. And no one will care. Even the people you meet will stay around but in truth, go away. You'll wonder who anyone really is. And you'll wake up, lost, and look for the signposts that you have lived your life by. The fried chicken wafting above Market Square. The dollar store Jesuses. Even the clock will be taken down and put in storage. The world will change and leave you standing here, wishing you had a greasy bag of fried chicken to leave behind for someone who was never there.
Photo - N
Words - S
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