As I peddle the aisles, I unwillingly pick up on wandering fragments of chatter. Persisting, I find new conversations and brief interactions to piece together with my curiosity. The shrill voices of old and young molest my ears, despite my efforts to resist. Every one of these capitalist landmarks is riddled with nations that have formed and disbanded, if only for a few minutes. They've gathered and governed themselves with babble and body language politics. Eyes wander, hints are taken. Awkward silence fills the breaks in voicing. I must be on my way, the twister of her hips dictates. A simple flash of ivory and wrinkles, the signature to a treaty.
If every interaction between people I witness is one resolved with a smile, where the fuck does war come from?
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