Death Is Always On Sale

Public places are so lonely, don't they almost tear your heart out; merchandise left where it was dropped, all of it owner-less and drear. The mannequins weep invisibly after hours that no one took them home; for they don't have birthdays, anniversaries to celebrate, and the doors don't know A loving touch, anywhere. The store windows sit nearly empty, hollow, hands reaching out to no one- closing on empty, echoing air. The escalators stop climbing, the elevators play dumb as a hush fills every corner with lack of purpose; The shuffling feet have gone away till another day. The stillness exists only in waiting for something, anything to break the monotony of every evening; but the people who shop here are ghosts themselves, who eventually die- and leave their things orphaned again.