The Trash Bins of Precarity
Money has a delightful scent, one with the power to smother the stench of misery before death comes to extinguish its power altogether.
To be poor is an unbearable nightmare when one knows exactly what it would take to escape the humiliations of overcrowded living and deprivation.
Truth prostitutes itself on the crumbling sidewalks of falsehood whenever money sheds its impurities.
Money brings happiness; only the rich, showering beneath the fountains of opulence, claim otherwise.
I know what it is like to rummage through the trash bins of precarity in order to survive the violence of a nightmarish daily existence.
To remain dignified in a reality chained to perpetual lack is a penance that resembles the calamities of hell.
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