Along the Shores of Nowhere

We again traipse along the garden of disregard. Another peek into the desultory desert that is Filmore Street. And the many marooned relics of yester-week. The afternoon kicks up a gale and the looming artifacts sail along the sea of gravel and sand. The Aral's got nothing on us.

Oh, Paddington. I bet you're hankering for the deepest, darkest Peru now. We've heard this Hollywood lullaby hundreds of times. Stowawayed to California with stars in his eyes. But ended up on the side of the road. Used and tired. Fur matted with feces probably.

The cushions nestle within the arms of the couch. Like piglets suckling a lumbering sow. They quiver with fear. Uncertainty keeps any semblance of comfort at bay. The couch frays under the unkind sun. Not even worth the spare change found within its grimy crevices.

The stories always revolve around Eve and Adam and their banishment from Paradise. But what of the forbidden fruit? We can hardly spare a thought for the tragic apple that incited our fall from grace. Parched and withered. Even the worm residing within blighted with profound regret.

The prize within forever sealed. Rust has padlocked this tin permanently. This tuna came a long way. An itinerant traveler that shuffled off the Pacific. Circumstance has deposited the tin on Filmore today. The salty spray of the sea, nevermore.

Nevermore.