Andreas Gripp St. Michael’s Quartet i The cityscape is cracked and bleeding. You hear a jazz trumpet in the middle of road rage. Panners ask you for change. You tell them to fuck off. After the fact, you give a dollar to one, whisper God Bless.
ii A puddle reflects the image of the sun. When a pedestrian stomps into it, the light is splintered. Your first thought is one of hate, how someone can callously blot out our star. Within seconds, a cloud conceals what’s above you, making it human.
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