the terrace

I see the sheep walk in a disjointed but flawless unison. Oblivious to the binary outcome facing them, to be shawn or to be slain. How do they not see what is to become of them. Caffeinated beverages of Italian name in cardboard cups keep them high enough in a legally and socially acceptable manner, high enough to forgot how much they hate themselves. Look to the sky, the rain is falling, instead of cleansing this crowded wasteland it just adds solute to the cesspool, mixing all the blank stares into one.  Or am I far too naive, is this everyones fate regardless of geographical location. Fuck that.