The landless lot. A roving mass of human forms, itinerant, shifting from one ledge to another. Outfitting corners of shelter with plastic crate shelves, the detritus of China’s factory molds feeding the ever growing hunger for more. That existential hole in man’s rumbling insatiable stomach.
The mass leaping under clouds, thundering for resolution. Our scurvy ridden human crawlers, moving between crevices, shifting back-and-forth as we shift onward in time. No respite under concrete bridges; trams and tracks go zooming by overhead. Time ticks on and passes these vermin by.
On goes the cold cycles of seasons. The landless lot muffled in the snow. Later, trying to cherish the roof of flowers and cook on cement ledges. Their plight a pleasant artificial contrast for well-heeled home living human comparers. Plush buttoned-up purveyors of soft lit parlors accessorized in glass earring ornaments twinkling before muted backgrounds.
That mass of unhomed, relearning routes parks avenues, descending onto corners, scraping parts of goodwill from an indifferent human flow. Trickling into gambling houses, pouring into empty seats, chancing the last ¥100 for a game with no end.