slows traffic in my brain.
Something doesn’t pass the smell test. Not in the odor sense but in the seemingly color sharp cinematography of the alleged real world. No popcorn or Junior Mints here. Just the dark schism of elitism and holier than thouism in the gray-haired gentleman’s word-worn lips, as he speaks down to me and the others on the street from his soap box as high as a ten-story building.
All the windows are painted black and people enter then leave with eyes closed and heads bowed to the floor. See them jostling front-to-back through a perpetually spinning door.
From his suite on the top floor, the gray-haired gentleman finds divine sanctity through sublime audacity of a self-serving mind. He sits on a throne of hypocrisy, spewing words to the courtiers that may be confused with the truth but in fact are lies. I can tell because he never looks anybody in the eye. You see, in the real world, he is blind.