The Urn
Spacial awareness let us down again, and shattered another urn, spilling that morbid sand. In the irritation of vacuuming respectfully we give a moment of meaning back to sooty remains. Referendums pass the time. They draw out experts who, with shouts and keystrokes, fling the spittle of their opinion. Elections pass the buck. With their signs and slogans they draw out the masses to choose between arsenic and anthrax. The French call their ballot box an urn. It is where we cast the ashes of our expired ideals, to be scattered amongst the winning or loosing percentage, as the fate of the nation teeters on the whims of fickle voters and loyal tabloid readers. All the projected outcomes are varied shades of ash, and a different decor of the receptacl...