Several tombs and headstones in Market Park Graveyard are covered in thick blankets of mold and mossy growths. Upkeep of the grounds is limited to bi-monthly half-visits by a team of maids who are often much too exhausted after a stressful workweek with their daily City Hall account to bother much with Market Park’s prevalent issues with disrepair and subsequent corrosion. ”As if anyone truly cares,” one of the maids once said to me over drinks in her car in the City Hall parking lot. “We still get paid and it doesn’t matter. I mean, we still at least show up, but you know, I bet we could only just claim that we went, and report that we cleaned up or whatever, but not actually even go, and we’d still probably receive our paychecks on time. With no questions asked. Seriously, no one fucking goes there anymore. Do you? I certainly don’t. No one does. Not in half a century, is my guess.”

Perhaps less faith in people is what it takes to feel weightless, like I can fly. I only feel beautiful inside when I read the headlines and see that some mother’s locked her children in a car and rolled it into a lake. I only feel worth it when I read the headlines and another father has stabbed his two sons in the middle of the night while they were sleeping.

(Source: corpseonpumpkin.com)