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 ^{(it's beta!)}

Big. As big as forever is the measurement for life. But in the suburbs, place and time are transparent. Not experiential, nothing audible, nothing but single-minded effort. The families are small and the vehicles are big. Living rooms consist of tidy furniture and bedrooms of neutral hues and nightmares. The girl living here isn’t living correctly. Loudly she doesn’t love. She’s completely alone in a suburb of minivans and houseplants like a dragonfly flickering before a motorway. She stares glassy-eyed and begging at a mannequin on her shelf, questioning lovelessness. Tied in a godly way, her brain riddles the four-walled defense about her. There is many, many more of her kind.

On a different street, in a different city-groping conglomerate, a boy of a second story ferments and stagnates in a thriving captivity; a life. Eerily on me he is looking, just as shoutingly quiet as the loveless girl. And yet he’s also saying; you are small, small as a slight asquint. His family has a pet instead of a sibling. It’s an old and stale and balding cat. One of them knows the hundredths abuse all too well.

A town’s skirt over, another child sits like a shaveling amid his capture in the suburban sound wall. A rumpus room of board games and DVDs claims one wall while another is maintained by self-denying art. It was created, in essence, of a soul baring excited talents. However, irony is well established as playing cruel. His well-being, the boy’s spirit, undrapes and raises the painting before him. The brain, recapitulated prepares for a permanent vacation without the consent of his parents (even if they left without him years before).

The potentiality of a sound life in suburbia is shockingly positive. Positive? When in comparison to the dredging of the youth-denied in mega-urbania, yes.

Glowing and black, low-pitched reasons for this go into the air like untold grains of the cigarettes that stole their youth. Their youth was always better than their children’s even though they swear the opposite. It’s a feverish case of denial—they can’t believe society would lie to them. Are those ashes what affected their chance? Are they better than the soil, than the tall stemmed feet of defiance, or even one space capsule?

Scream of love! Scream of size! Insist, “This is not art!" Tell of such, of that one girl or boy known in this plane of life SUBURBIA. Tell that one, brainy man he’d stolen it and force realization of what’s between the lines on the meaty, butterfly-striped t-shirt, the hairspray on it, and the goodness of a malison roach.