Change

It sits in the silent slab of perfectly shaped rectangular concrete (not accounting for all the minute, unseeable imperfections inherent to the selective ignorance of the human mind obscuring the straightness of concrete's sides - and, let's face it, its center). It sits there, emanating a color that my own capacity at language fails to portray - but that someone with a more feminine (or just caring) persuasion might more easily identify. Jenny would know. So for me, it's tan; even as I know it's not tan.

As a pauper, it sits directly on the dirt and grime of the parking lot as it houses the same grime and filth within. As with all its brethren, its owner will undoubtedly strive to cleanse the exterior even as it fill its innards with the same imperfection. That is, even as its caretaker recognizes the duality of imperfect chaos spontaneously uniting to create unity - he or she will scrub and push away the imperfect chaos readily apparent to the passing eye in an only somewhat futile attempt to obscure the true reality from plain site - save for those standing directly above the cavernous opening in its top. It is, in many ways, analogous to taking a bath. A bath for the inanimate.

And so it flaunts its duality in silence from the corner of its imperfect white rectangle, revelling in the fact that the little handicapped man's head nearby will never reach high enough to see the organics keeping its being alive. The wheel-chair bound image will never see what from above is obvious - that it is wearing its skin inside-out.

But above all, in its silence it is truly content - for nude, or more, it is still the way all things work, and sprouting from its being the mini-jungle of green and a mere speck of purple scream to the world of where all these bipeds' limiations lie. In all those other palces you will be closer to where you come from - you will see where sustenance finds its roots. In those places you will be forced to deeper creativities as you find ease more difficult to come by. Your concrete walls will tumble down and send you spiraling to 100 years ago - but even then, you will simply place the seed and watch innards turn to outards.

You will fly to the future again - and there you will find that the outards have risen to the sky over the plains where nothing but birds once flew. And still, having been there for the birth, you will not be able to truly explain why.

That's what it's screaming from its lowly pedastol, beneath the combustion of those grasping for change.