We live in a shopping mall world of transactional people.
Walking the polished floors with only reflective lights.
People in a mad flurry searching the shelves for the right company, buying ideas in bulk, and fervently scratching lists.
People walk aisle after aisle trying to satiate some thirst or pacify some craving.
The grown world is a cold one where we feed of instance and demand what is new.
But I'm not new.
I'm from a different time of warmth and softness and intentions.
Like an abandoned child's bear that once was family and familiar in a sense.
Stained with the broken bonds and matted fur,
Discarded in a place lacking innocence.
Sentimentality is a luxury of cost, in a place that values nothing.
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