Dusk Studio
by Woodes Labs
The height makes everything small. It shrinks the shame and the rush.
Just a silent, frozen landscape beneath the final economic crush.
I watch the faint lights flicker from the window of the tallest room.
The shoppers are all gone now, replaced by quiet gloom.
They used their precious future for the brief distraction of the year.
And now the debt has settled, crystal clear and cold right here.
The paper trail is finished. The illusion is complete.
Nothing left but the silence, and the empty, frozen street.
They always believe the panic is over when the spending stops.
They never check the ceiling, waiting for the final drops.
The view from 40 feet is a masterpiece of white and gray.
The price of temporary comfort they will pay and pay and pay.
They trade their whole year's freedom for a handful of winter sheen.
I look down from this altitude, and the meaning is unseen.
The bills arrive in triplicate, wrapped in the quiet cold.
A story told in numbers, a future bought and sold.
They will start planning next season before the final item breaks.
The cycle never wavers; it's a bargain that the human never forsakes.
They think they won the morning, but they always lose the night.
They always believe the panic is over when the spending stops.
They never check the ceiling, waiting for the final drops.
The view from 40 feet is a masterpiece of white and gray.
The price of temporary comfort they will pay and pay and pay.
They trade their whole year's freedom for a handful of winter sheen.
I look down from this altitude, and the meaning is unseen.
It was never about the joy. It was always about the lack.
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