Lonely women, a lost lonely platoon of mall
warriors, buying... buying... buying,
attempting in vain to keep the emptiness of
the roaring boredom of their lives from
entering their splintered souls... lighting
cancer sticks, and hastily swallowing
Apricot Margaritas with salt on the rim to
cut out the memory of a bleak apartment
without air-conditioning; dreaming with a
naïve wistfulness of a suburban house in the
country, next to a river, which unknown to
them is polluted with the ashen skeletons of
toxic slush. They undress in the hot humidity
of the afternoon in their unclothed
apartment, hoping for relief. Their only
happiness comes from the boy in the
apartment across the alley watching the
golden threads of their barren bodies,
casually crossing, and re-crossing the
sizzling living room.
Forlorn men, stagger, after work, toward dim
sleazy bars dreaming of finding naïve
women who live in hot apartments, looking
for anything... even unshaven men with no
imagination, to relive the acidic boredom of
unfulfilling hours with drunken incantations
and hollow promises. Men hoping for less
than a 4-hour commitment... slurp alcohol
with burning abandon so they won't have to
discard their immorality, while dreaming of
seduction. They dream of convincing young
women living in hot friendless apartments
into believing they have a high paying job, a
fancy new car, upscale suits from Sax, and a
satisfied life. Lies given in the heat of their
sweltering dullness, fortify the lack of reality
in their boring lives.
Then another tomorrow of sameness arrives
for the lost men and women, and they, once
again, attempt to bear the banalities and the
unforgiving work demands of the tyrant in
the corner office... and the desolate drama
replays all over again for countless
unforgiving hours in their frustrated lives of
purchasing worthless trinkets, living in
lonely hot apartments, and enduring a life of
toiling monotony.
