It's an abstraction,
wearing a tuxedo and bowtie,
when found in a mob
not knowing where it's going,
but flowing
like a remarkable tomorrow.

As if, there was an ability
to be in it, and live there,
in the nonsense.
Because there is no smell,

the smoke in a saloon,
or the alcohol in breaths.
Listening to the idle chatter
the mob recites,
it's all Greek, and Manderin-Chinese.

And a silence shatters
by dancers on a dance floor
twirling about.