Staccato

So everybody's dancing just to get it off. That's all. Simple. Staccato. And it's something that happens all the time, like hand guns and falling in love. Nothing's sacred anymore, and that's how it's started to be comfortable.

The red light served little purpose. It was meant as a warning, but had morphed into just an irritating stream of iridescence. We're numb to it now.

We always get the neon but we don't remember what it means, much less what it stands for. Midas would've turned in his kingly grave. All we touch turns to rust.

It comes off on our fingers like dry blood—why do we sit touching our scars? Because it's all we know now. We don't remember our warnings because they don't mean anything.

The numbers they run across the screens meant something once, as well. It meant money, or body count, or milliliters or something. I can't remember. Does anyone?

So we walk off cliffs, and into construction sites without helmets and without thought. Our illiteracy is boundless past our résumés so perfect. We don't read like we used to.

We walk into speeding cars; cars speed into our walks. The numbers keep going across the screen. I think it might be money.

We're rich, and we're right. We are comfortable.

And we are such bastards.