‘For a country with such capitalist ideals, there is nothing more damaging to the American ego than the common ‘For Sale’ sign. It appears in a city as the first blister of a pox, reddening windows and hopping from the threshold of one business to the next. Storefronts collapse like rotten teeth, leaving ugly gaps in the once-smile of Main Street. In these trying times it’s easy to wonder who passed this wasting disease to us- which of the world’s sick economies has coughed in our direction most recently?
Rest assured, reader: our affliction is auto-immune. In America, everything is, and always has been, for sale.’
The Editor is heartbroken to find an empty storefront where ‘Zeitgeist Publishing’ once held a branch. She refuses to admit it but, in terms of heartbreak, there’s no more obvious tell than hiding one’s face.
We’ve both seen the signs, or, I’ve seen the signs and I suspect she has too (I’ve been told I read to closely into silences). Neither ‘The Waterhole Death Sequence’ nor ‘Speculation’ boded well for the Editor’s town and it’s not often a path veers so far off course that it’s entirely unpredictable. I try to tell her as much (I’ve been told I offer solutions when I should be offering condolences).
“Do you know the difference between a path and a trail?” she asks, drawing an ‘X’ across the dusty pane of glass.
I chew the inside of my cheek and narrow my eyes: “No.”
“When you’re on a trail, you’re following something. When you’re on a path, you’re just walking.”
“How long do you think we’ve been on a trail?”
“Maybe this whole time.”
-traveler
